


Routine Maintenance

by VelkynKarma



Series: A Little Bit of Maintenance [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, Injury, PTSD, all platonic or friendship, medical jargon kind of, possible spoilers for season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Being an amputee with a prosthetic limb is difficult enough. Having a solid metal alien prosthetic forced on you by another species entirely is even worse. OR:Five times Shiro’s Galra arm caused him trouble in some way and another member of the team helped him out with it, and the one time the same arm is the only reason any of them survive.





	1. Grit

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I’ve seen a lot of stories about Shiro’s arm that revolve around the same themes—mind control, the emotional trauma of getting it, the psychological ramifications of it and the way he perceives it as connecting him to Galra. But I’ve seen almost no fic about just dealing with the pros and cons of even being an amputee with a prosthetic limb in the first place. Much less an amputee with an alien prosthetic limb that can do really weird things that was forced on by a species unfamiliar with humans.

It’s a miserable, exhausted, sweaty, mud-coated team of paladins that Shiro leads back to the Castle of Lions, after three days of trekking through the swamp-infested lands of the planet Ssagessh.   
  
Every single one of the teens under his command are already pushing their limits, and he can tell the majority of them are close to their breaking points. Pidge is grumpy and snappish, her usual blunt opinions reinforced with laser-guided sharpness that cuts like a knife whenever she expresses her annoyance with anyone. While Lance and Keith are never exactly the _best_ of friends, their bickering typically at least has some degree of restraint and even amusement to it. But now the two are unleashing venomous barbs with an air of ever-increasing violence, and Shiro is sure it would have come to blows hours ago if he hadn’t insisted they walk on opposite sides of the group. Even Hunk, by far the most passive and easy-going member of the team, is looking distinctly frazzled after three days of uncomfortable hiking conditions stuck in each others’ company. It was fortunate Voltron hadn’t been needed recently, as Shiro doubted the four of them would agree on the time of day, much less on mentally collaborating to form the massive robot.  
  
The misery had been necessary for the mission, of course. Allura and Coran had picked up a distress beacon from a nearby planet, ravaged by the Galra for resources, and the team had dutifully intervened to provide aid. The Galra forces had been smaller, with only a minor fleet in orbit, and the Lions (and Voltron) had defeated them easily. But their assistance hadn’t stopped there. The inhabitants of the planet had become severely ill due to the Galra’s invasion, when the conquerors had tampered with the sensitive environment of Ssagessh in its resource harvesting, and its people had begged Allura and her paladins for aid.   
  
The cryo-pods weren’t equipped to handle illness—and they certainly couldn’t handle the volume of people living in the villages across the continent—but there had been alternative options. The village elders had told stories of a plant deep in the swamplands that held incredible healing and restorative properties, and that a few drops of the oil it produced distilled in water could cure an entire family. It was considered holy and incredibly sought after, but was rarely found due to the dangerous nature of the swamps and the creatures living within it that made searching for it difficult.  
  
So, of course, the paladins had gone straight in.  
  
The good news was that they had managed to find the mysterious plant, once they got farther into the swamp. There were a number of large, dangerous predators, but while they might have threatened an unprepared Ssagessh villager, the things were no match for the paladins of Voltron and were easily put down or driven away.   
  
The bad news was that the plant was quite widespread, and not easy to spot, the way it blended in with the rest of the plant life. Its roots were also under the slimy, muddy water and had to be carefully extracted, which often meant wandering in waist deep and nearly submerging in the muck just to pull it out. By the time the massive backpack they’d been sent with was full of the life-giving medicinal plant, three days had passed, and every single one of the team was coated head to toe in slimy, green-brown muck. Shiro wasn’t sure the paladin armor would ever be white again.  
  
So it’s a sorry, exhausted group that returns with their spoils, fed up with each others’ company and desperate only for hot showers, clean beds, and food that doesn’t taste like mud. Not even Lance bothers to gloat about their success, and he barely gives the bulging backpack in Shiro’s hand a second look.   
  
“You guys go ahead,” Shiro says, nodding in the direction of the showers, as the four teens turn to give him blank, expectant looks. “Clean yourselves up and get some dinner. I’m going to deliver this and do the same.” He hefts the backpack full of medicinal plant in his left hand.  
  
The others need no further encouragement, and all four are off like a shot, tracking green-brown streaks on the clean floors of the castle as they make for the showers. Shiro mentally winces at the lecture Coran is sure to unload later, but he’s too tired to really feel sorry about it at the moment. Really, he’s just glad the others are gone for now. The obvious tension building in the group has finally disappeared, but more than that, they aren’t any more watching eyes to eventually catch on to the fact that his right arm hasn’t moved at all in the past six hours.  
  
As much as he loathes his Galra prosthetic, he has always grudgingly admitted it’s a remarkable piece of technology. It grants him incredible levels of strength, and it can cut through or burn nearly anything when activated. It works flawlessly with other Galra technology. And its integration into his nervous system is sophisticated enough that he can operate his metal fingers with incredible dexterity and grace, if he so chooses.  
  
But it is metal, and not, apparently, immune to dirt or mud. And after three days of trekking through swamplands, constantly splashed by and submerged in all manner of slimy mud and water, it has apparently reached its limit. His joints are completely locked up, and attempting to twitch his fingers elicits a strange grinding sensation that he feels with vibrations more than actual sensations of pain or discomfort.   
  
Even worse, it’s _heavy_. The Galra prosthetic has always been hefty, but something in the mechanisms always allowed it to compensate at least somewhat for its own weight. Whatever did that before, the mud and slime of the swamplands have definitely put a halt to it. The arm hangs awkwardly at his side, straining his shoulder and sending a throbbing sensation through what’s left of his right arm. The effort of supporting it at all is exhausting.  
  
Shiro is sure the only reason the others hadn’t noticed was because everyone else had been in a stumbling, drooping walk by the time they exited the swamplands and returned to the castle, and it hadn’t looked out of place. Now, though, with their energy returning and their enthusiasm raised with the prospect of a hot shower and a decent rest, the others were sure to notice. He doesn’t want to bother them with it. It’s his arm, his prosthetic, and his problem, and they were exhausted enough as it was without heaping his problems onto it.   
  
Besides, it won’t be much of an issue. A shower and a chance to clean it off will do the trick…he hopes, anyway. No reason to worry them over it.  
  
He delivers the bag of medicinal plants to the infirmary, where Allura and Coran are hard at work preparing other ingredients for the healing mixture, with the input of one or two of the village elders. Shiro drops the mud-spattered bag on the table while keeping his body angled enough that his metal arm isn’t clearly visible. None of them take notice, instead praising him for retrieving the plants and immediately unpacking the bag of its contents to get to work.  
  
“Let us know if you need anything else,” Shiro says. Allura and Coran barely nod, already focused on their work. Shiro thanks his luck and slips out the door, heading for the showers.   
  
The others are gone by the time he arrives. It’s taken him longer than usual to make his way around the castle, with the heavy, dead weight at his right side weighing his already exhausted body down and throwing him off his gait. He prefers it this way, at least. Better to not have company while dealing with his currently dead arm. He awkwardly peels off his armor and the dark undersuit with one hand, watching in disgust as crusty, hardened mud crumbles onto the floor, and gets to work cleaning himself up.  
  
It doesn’t go as planned. He’s able to rinse the caked mud off the surface of his Galra arm, which is thankfully waterproof and can be run under the water with no issues. But the joints still remain stubbornly locked, even after run under a steady stream of water for twenty minutes. The usual steady hum and whir of the inner workings is gone, and it’s eerily silent. But trying to force his fingers, wrist and elbow to bend—either naturally or by grabbing the metal limb with his real hand to flex it—results in a sharp, awful series of grinding and cracking noises that send chills up his spine and make his teeth clench. He doesn’t try to force it again, too scared of breaking something he knows he can’t fix.   
  
Running his natural fingers over the surface of the metal, he can feel a grittiness at each of the joints, like dirt has gotten caught in the crevices and gearworks and jammed up any movement. The port where the prosthetic attaches is even worse; it’s like he can feel individual grains of dirt rubbing between metal and flesh, irritating his skin and his sanity alike. It’s like he remembers from the beaches back on Earth, getting sand in his clothes and being unable to shake it out, only ten thousand times worse.   
  
Something dark in the back of his mind seems to remember this being a problem before. He has vague flashes in the back of his consciousness, of trying to flex his metal fingers, only for them to be stiff and unyielding. He thinks he remembers sitting in a prison cell, using his water ration to desperately try cleaning out the joints, gummed up with arena sand saturated in blood and other fluids—  
  
 _Stop. Stop thinking about it. Don’t go there. Not now._   
  
But even then, even with those vague but ever-sharpening memories clawing at the back of his consciousness, Shiro doesn’t ever recall the arm’s functionality being quite _this_ bad. If it had locked up like this in the arena, he’d be dead, end of story.   
  
It also makes cleaning the rest of himself off extremely difficult, with only one functioning arm, and in the end his shower doesn’t feel very refreshing at all. He’s gotten most of the caked mud off of himself, but he isn’t able to really scrub clean or wash the grime out of his hair. His white fringe is currently a grungy shade of brown.   
  
He glares at the useless metal arm. He really needs to get this fixed.   
  
Drying off and getting dressed in a new set of clean clothes is a veritable chore in itself, and the arm still hangs awkwardly, useless and unmoving. Hungry as he is, Shiro decides to forego dinner for the moment. There’s no way any of the rest will miss his arm in this state, and he’s really not interested in drawing attention to himself.   
  
Instead, he makes his way to Hunk’s workshop. At this hour their engineer is almost certainly preparing dinner and enjoying it with the others, which means Shiro has a small window of opportunity to browse the yellow paladin’s tools. With luck, he’ll have something he uses for maintenance of the various ship mechanics that can also be used to clean out this stupid prosthetic and get it working again.  
  
The workshop is a mess, but Shiro can tell it’s an organized chaos sort of mess. There’s projects, notebooks, and parts everywhere, but there appears to be a system to it. He’s careful not to knock anything over or dislodge any of the precarious piles as he slips through the room, left hand holding his metal one in front of himself so he doesn’t accidentally break something with the unresponsive limb.   
  
It takes him a little bit, but he eventually finds something that looks like a cross between a dentist’s pick and a pair of tweezers abandoned on one workbench. The tool is small enough he thinks it might get into the cracks and crevices of the joints; it’s probably used for more delicate machine work with extremely tiny parts. He picks it up in his left hand, braces his metal hand awkwardly against a discarded stool to hold it still, and sets to work.   
  
Not surprisingly considering his current string of luck, it doesn’t go as well as he hopes. Holding the tool in his left hand is awkward, and it feels clumsy in his fingers. He’s been teaching himself to use his left hand for everyday tasks ever since he received the arm from Galra out of necessity, of course. His memories of the arena, the ones he _can_ remember, frequently have him wielding weapons in his left hand when the prosthetic was too new and painful and lacked any coordination. But most of his newfound left-handed experience is from combat, or relatively simple tasks like opening doors or drinking from a cup. The more delicate, detail-oriented tasks—like holding a pen and writing—are still clumsy affairs, where his left fingers don’t quite know what to do. Using the pick to try and clean out the joints of his useless right arm apparently falls into the ‘delicate and detail oriented’ category, because it’s incredibly difficult to aim and direct, and his left hand can’t seem to figure out the coordination. If Galra metal wasn’t so sophisticated, he’s sure the arm would be scored with scratches by now.  
  
Not only that, but’s difficult to reach all the cracks and crevices in his metal plating. The prosthetic is not cooperative, and he can’t flex it in order to better reach areas in the back, or to get a better angle into the joint. He stops bracing the arm against the stool after a while and sits on it instead, awkwardly curling forward to place his stiff right arm in his lap, twisting uncomfortably to try and reach the most awkward locations on the arm.   
  
It doesn’t really work. He manages to dig out a small bit of mud and grit, and there’s a tiny dusting of dried out dirt on his lap and at his feet, but the arm remains stubbornly locked and unresponsive.   
  
“Shiro?”  
  
Shiro actually starts, and is on his feet in a flash, twisting the little pick from the awkward hold to a much more familiar grip to use it like a knife. His metal arm hangs uselessly, dragging his shoulders down a little with the weight. He doesn’t like feeling so vulnerable with his arm like this; as much as he hates it, it is his only real defense, and with it out of commission he feels helpless. The pick won’t do much but it’s better than nothing—  
  
But it’s no enemy in the doorway—just Hunk, looking surprised to see him and holding a plate of the strange pink cubes Coran calls food in one hand. The other raises up, palm out, in a gesture of peace and surrender. “Woah,” he says, looking startled, “Didn’t mean to make you jump, I just…what are you doing in here? Something wrong? Keith was looking for you earlier when you didn’t show up for dinner, we figured maybe you went to the training deck, but, um…”   
  
Shiro blinks at him, absorbing the meaning of the rambling, as he lowers the pick. A quick glance at the Earth-based clock Hunk has installed in one corner tells him he’s been trying to clean out his prosthetic for over an hour; he hadn’t even realized he’d gotten so absorbed in the task. He mentally chastises himself for zoning out so much he lost familiarity with his surroundings. That’s not a habit he should be building when he’s supposed to be some kind of leader in a war. The memory blackouts he _knows_ he has are bad enough as it is.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, as calmly as he can. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone by disappearing on them. I’ll track down Keith in a bit and grab something to eat from the kitchens.”   
  
“Okay,” Hunk says, still looking a little puzzled, “But, um, Shiro…is something wrong with your arm?”  
  
He’s staring at the Galra prosthetic with a frown. There’s no real way for Shiro to hide it; it’s hanging like a broken arm, which in a way it is, and clearly unresponsive. No point in denying the truth, but no point in worrying Hunk either. “It’s not a problem, I’m taking care of it,” he says smoothly. “I just stopped by to pick up this, I hope that’s alright. I can find something else if I need to.” He gestures absently with the pick. “You’ve had a long couple of days, so I’ll just get out of your way—“  
  
“Woah, I didn’t say you had to go!” Hunk says, frown shifting to apologetic alarm, like he’s afraid he said something to accidentally offend Shiro. “You can stay, it’s fine. It’ll be easier for you to get any tools if you need it. But, um…” He glances at the pick, then the arm, and then says almost hesitantly, “Well, y’know, if you’re trying to clean up a little, a brush might be easier than that…”  
  
Shiro blinks at him, and Hunk gestures over Shiro’s shoulder to a small plastic case. Shiro works it open awkwardly with his left hand and finds a number of soft, small brushes, presumably intended for cleaning smaller electronics and mechanics. He glances back at Hunk. “Thanks. I’ll try these out then.”  
  
Hunk gives him a funny look, like he’s trying to figure Shiro out. After a moment he says, “Do you want any help with that?”  
  
But Shiro shakes his head. “It’s fine. I got it. You must have come down here for a project of your own, right? You even brought snacks.” He gestures to the plate. “I don’t want to keep you. You’ve been working really hard for the past few days and you deserve a little downtime. I’ll just stay over here and take care of this without bothering you, okay?” He offers a smile that he hopes is more confident looking than he actually feels.  
  
Hunk gives him a bemused look, like he’s not quite sure he believes what Shiro’s saying but doesn’t want to say something to contradict him him. Eventually he nods. “Okay. But let me know if you need any help with that.”  
  
“I will.” He won’t. He already burdens them with enough of his garbage as it is, far more than he should as their leader; he’s certainly not going to start whining to them about his poor stuck arm and how he can’t use it.  
  
He settles back onto the stool, this time in a corner with the case of brushes, and sets to work again. The small brushes are moderately better, in that they can slip a little more easily into the cracks and joints of his Galra arm than the pick, but he still lacks the coordination and skill to actually use them effectively. Before too long he’s doubled over in place again with the arm in his lap, trying to get at the joints, with very little success.  
  
He’s aware after a little while that he’s being watched, and glances up to see Hunk staring at him. The yellow paladin has unpacked his tools and is now sitting down at one of the benches in front of a jumble of metal pieces, but notably hasn’t actually started working on it. Instead he says with a mix of fondness and exasperation, “Okay, seriously Shiro, _please_ let me help you with that. This is actually physically painful to watch.”  
  
Shiro frowns. “You really don’t need to—“  
  
“Look, it’s kind of in my job description, right? I’m the team engineer. I take care of our mechanical things and make sure they keep working. Your arm _happens_ to fall into that category. I get that its yours and maybe you don’t like people messing with it, and okay, that’s fine, I guess, for the small stuff at least, but c’mon Shiro, you’re obviously having trouble with it. It’s the mud, right? All that dirt is drying out and gunking up the gearworks. I’ve seen it happen before with all kinds of stuff, it’s really not a problem, I can help fix it—“  
  
“Hunk.” The yellow paladin’s ramble screeches to a halt, and Shiro says, “I appreciate the offer, but it’s really not needed. Your project there—“  
  
“Can wait,” Hunk says firmly. “C’mon, Shiro, you really don’t look so good. I think having an arm that works kinda takes priority over my down time, right?”  
  
Well he’s not _wrong_ , exactly. But Shiro chafes at the idea of letting any of the other paladins take care of _him_ when _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to be protecting _them_. And another part of him just doesn’t like the idea of any of them messing with his arm. It’s a dangerous thing and he hates it, and he’s still not entirely sure what it’s fully capable of. And right now it’s also sensitive and painful, and doesn’t need even _more_ irritating.  
  
But Hunk seems to guess at the thoughts going though Shiro’s head based on his hesitation, because he says earnestly, “I’ll be very careful, I promise. _Please_ let me help? You look like you could use some rest too, and you probably won’t get that until you have a working arm again.”  
  
He clearly means well…and Shiro supposes if any of them could handle the Galra tech safely, it would be Hunk. He is, as he just pointed out, their engineer, and it _is_ kind of in his job description.  
  
Besides, Shiro really just wants to stop feeling helpless, and it’s exhausting to keep holding up this dead weight attached to his irritated stump of an arm. And he does want to have an actual working arm back, even if it is this awful Galra thing, and he _is_ pretty sure he’s getting nowhere trying to clean it on his own. So he sighs tiredly and nods. “Okay then.”  
  
“Great!” Hunk says. “Here, set it down on this worktable so I can get a better angle at it.” He moves aside several projects to make space for Shiro’s arm, and starts collecting several tools from the various other workbenches.   
  
Shiro carefully lifts the dead metal arm with his natural one to take a little of the weight off his shoulder as he moves, and steps carefully across the workspace, avoiding parts and projects, until he reaches the table. He lets the Galra prosthetic _thud_ onto the worktable, and it’s so weighty the entire table actually shakes as the sound seems to ricochet around the room.   
  
Hunk’s eyes widen as he stares at the arm. “Wow…I didn’t realize it was _that_ heavy. And you’ve been dragging that around all this time?” He sounds impressed.  
  
Shiro curls forward awkwardly over the table, which is slightly too low, to rest his prosthetic there. He barely bites back the edge of fatigue from his voice as he says, “Well, normally it does something to compensate for its own weight, but whatever mechanism does that it’s..well…not, not right now.”   
  
Hunk pushes an adjustable stool over for him, so he can sit at the proper level for the arm to rest comfortably on the table without him curling forward or putting any strain on his shoulder. Shiro sits gratefully, and this time can’t hide the flicker of relief that slips across his face for a bare second.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Hunk says, placing the last of the tools on the table in easy reach, and turning on a lamp so he’s got better lighting over the arm. “We’ll get this cleaned up and functioning again right away, promise.”  
  
At first, Shiro is tense, as Hunk leans forward and gently lifts the metal palm, examining the fingers and wrist carefully. He tries to flex the wrist, much like Shiro had attempted to do in the shower, and the same awful grinding noise from before screeches through the workroom. Shiro winces at the noise, and Hunk says, “Ouch, sorry…this is a little worse than I thought. You don’t even have a little bit of mobility…how long has it been like this?”  
  
Even as he asks, he reaches for one of the tools, and carefully, gently, begins working at one of the immobile knuckle joints on Shiro’s fingers.   
  
“Ah…a few hours at least,” Shiro admits with a sigh. He’s more tired than he realizes when he catches himself admitting that. Between the mission and lugging that dead weight around, he must have exhausted himself more than he thought. Sitting without having to maintain the metal arm or compensate for its weight is like a little piece of heaven.  
  
“Since before we even got back to the castle?” Hunk looks half impressed, half exasperated, and hums sympathetically. “I wish you’d told us earlier,” he says. “I could maybe have done something out in the field, before some of it dried up.”  
  
“You couldn’t have seen it anyway under all the mud,” Shiro says, with a slight smile. “We were all a mess. I doubt it’d have done any good.”  
  
“I guess.” Hunk sighs. “Still. Wish I’d known earlier. We could have at least carried the bag for you.”   
  
“It wasn’t that heavy,” Shiro reassures. “It’s fine, really.”   
  
Hunk doesn’t exactly look happy with this answer, but is easily sidetracked when Shiro asks him about the project he’d been planning to work on tonight, and he starts to chatter as he works. The talk seems to relax him a little. While his handling of the Galra arm is hesitant at first, as though he’s afraid of breaking something or accidentally hurting Shiro, it becomes more confident as time passes and he becomes more used to the technology.   
  
Even so, he’s surprisingly gentle and very dexterous in the way he handles the prosthetic.  He carefully turns and and adjusts it to clean out the joints and maneuver parts of it without ever causing that awful grinding noise or feeling again, or causing Shiro’s stump any discomfort. He works methodically and carefully, taking care of each individual finger one joint at a time, swishing out the dirt and swiping the joint interiors squeaky clean. Before long Shiro can wiggle all four mechanical fingers and thumb with no problems, and the soft whir and click of the prosthetic is back. Shiro never realized how much he could possibly miss he noise he’d long since come to hate. From there, still chattering cheerfully, Hunk moves on to the wrist, then the elbow, and finally the panels set along the outside of what’s left of Shiro’s bicep, until the whole prosthetic moves smoothly again under Shiro’s power.  
  
It’s much better than before, but Shiro still winces slightly when he lifts the arm. Whatever function that made the limb compensate for its own weight is working again, and it doesn’t feel like the dead, useless weight he’d been dealing with earlier. But the strain on his shoulder is still pretty bad, especially around the port where his flesh meets metal, which still feels sandpapery and raw.  
  
“It looks like some of the mud may have irritated the port,” Hunk says, frowning a little. “Um…do you want me to…?”  
  
He’s hesitant again. Shiro thinks it’s probably because they’re moving out of his machinery domain into something straddling the line between engineering and medicine. Or maybe he’s just nervous about hurting Shiro, especially when the grafting scars connecting his upper arm to the prosthetic are so clearly visible right now.   
  
Shiro doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. But he knows those scars will be difficult to handle on his own—to reach, much less to try and clean out—and he doesn’t want them getting infected or have his skin irritated painfully even further. At this point Hunk’s already seen the scars; there’s nothing left to really hide. And accepting the help so far really hadn’t been so bad…“I won’t force you,” he says slowly, “But I’d appreciate the help, if you’re willing.”  
  
“Of course!” Hunk says hastily. “Hold on, let me just grab some water…”  
  
He does, while Shiro rests at the table, slowly flexing his metal fingers open and closed, reveling in the fact that they’re _moving_ again. He hates the damn thing, but at least when it’s functioning he can use it against the Galra. As dead weight not only is _it_ useless, it makes _him_ useless too.   
  
When Hunk returns, it’s with a pouch of water and a couple small hand towels, one of which he carefully wets and uses to wipe down the port where it meets skin. It’s sensitive and it hurts, but Shiro is careful to keep any indication of pain from his face so he doesn’t worry Hunk any further, and Hunk works as gently as possible to keep from causing Shiro any additional discomfort. He finishes and pats the port and surrounding skin dry very carefully with the second towel, and Shiro can’t help but close his eyes for a moment at the relief of _not_ having that gritty, sandpaper feeling where dirt had been trapped between the port and his flesh anymore. He feels _so_ much better than he had when they first got back to the castle.  
  
He makes to stand, but Hunk gestures hastily for him to sit. “One more thing, super important,” he says, as he produces what looks like a tiny sphere with a long nozzle on one end. “Oil,” he says, as he dabs the thin nozzle carefully against one of the knuckle joints of the Galra prosthetic. “Keep those joints moving nice and smooth.”  
  
Shiro frowns. “I’ve never had to use that before.”  
  
“No, and I can tell you’ve needed it,” Hunk counters. “Trust me, man. I’ve gotten a _lot_ of lectures about the proper lubricants to use with engineering machinery. I’ve got this. It’ll move a lot smoother with the proper maintenance.” He frowns slightly. “They didn’t ever teach you how to take care of this thing?”  
  
Shiro frowns slightly, and says neutrally, “If they did, I can’t exactly remember it at the moment.” Though privately he thinks, _But I doubt they ever bothered. Every other memory I still have, the Galra have reveled in sink-or-swim and survival of the fittest. I wouldn’t put it past them for a second to have attached this thing to me just to see if I could figure out how to survive with it._   
  
Hunk’s eyes widen and he looks momentarily horrified, like he’s just realized he accidentally crossed a line. “Oh man, I’m so sorry,” he says hastily. “I didn’t mean to—that wasn’t what I—“  
  
“It’s fine, Hunk,” Shiro says patiently, and he means it. He knows Hunk didn’t mean anything degrading or cruel by it. If Hunk was that kind of person he wouldn’t have just sacrificed his time off to clean out his wreck of a leader’s busted prosthetic.   
  
“Okay, well…” Hunk pauses for a moment, and then sets down Shiro’s metal arm to grip his real, natural one. He curls Shiro’s fingers around the small oil applicator and guides it to the metal thumb, saying, “Well, I can help you with that, at least. You’ll want to apply oil like this—not too much, just enough to get smooth movement…”  
  
Shiro pays close attention to (but is still a little amused by) Hunk’s quick lesson on how to maintain his own arm, and is surprised by how much Hunk manages to teach him about it in just half an hour. He’s learned more in this short span of time than he has in months of having the damn thing grafted to his arm through his fights, escapes and everything else. And he’s surprised to find that Hunk’s lessons do actually help a lot. The joints flex more smoothly now with the oil he never knew he needed, and the little tips for keeping it clean will save him hours in the future, he’s sure.  
  
“—but don’t forget,” Hunk finishes, “even if you can do all that for self-care, I’m still here if you need help with anything. I don’t mind helping you take care of it at all. And some things will just be easier with an extra set of hands, rather than just the one.” He glances at Shiro’s left hand.   
  
“Yeah,” Shiro says slowly, flexing his metal fingers again absently. “Yeah, I may take you up on that offer in the future, if I need it.” Hunk _was_ their engineer after all…and more importantly, it was nice to know he had some kind of reliable back up when he couldn’t handle certain problems by himself.  
  
“Great! I’m glad to hear it,” Hunk says, and he really does look happy at the prospect. The Yellow Lion really had chosen well, Shiro thinks fondly; Hunk’s compassion and care for the rest of his team mates is truly on a different level.   
  
“Uh, one more thing, though, before you leave,” Hunk adds, as Shiro stands up from the stool and flexes his now much less heavy arm experimentally.   
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You, uh…you might wanna…” Hunk looks hesitant, but after a moment points sheepishly to Shiro’s forehead. It takes Shiro a second to realize the engineer is actually indicating his normally-white fringe of hair, which is still a grungy brown from his failed attempt at a shower earlier.   
  
“I mean, not that I’m _complaining,_ ” Hunk says hastily, raising both hands placatingly, as Shiro raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s just, well, you maybe kinda brought half the swamp back with you, and I’m not gonna lie, man, that place was _not_ Febreeze fresh. Just so you know.”   
  
Shiro snorts. “Point taken,” he says dryly. But internally, he’s only barely hiding a smile at Hunk’s sheepish discomfort. The kid had just put up with him for the better part of an hour or two reeking like a garbage dumpster without complaint, just to help him clean out his arm. If that wasn’t dedication to the team, he didn’t know what was. He places his (now significantly cleaner) metal arm on Hunk’s shoulder, and says, “Thanks, Hunk. I mean it.”  
  
Hunk just beams. “Any time, Shiro,” he says, and Shiro has a feeling he really will take him up on that offer in the future.


	2. Depths

“Everyone get to the Lions!” Shiro roars over the comms, as the halls start to fill with armed sentries. No one argues, and as one the five of them turn to fight their way back up the choked hallways. Lance and Hunk guard their flanks with their collapsible energy shields while Keith, Shiro and Pidge fight their way through the bots on the stairs, towards fresh air and freedom far above.   
  
The mission was intended to be more stealth than combat, but they must have tripped an alarm somewhere on the massive Galra ocean rig they’re in the process of infiltrating. The Galra had built the enormous structure—in many ways resembling the old oil rigs of Earth—on a largely oceanic planet, and it runs deep into the ocean trenches thousands of feet below. Supposedly, the Galra were extracting some kind of oil or mineral that, when carefully refined and condensed, proved excellent at storing vast amounts of quintessence. Anything that strengthened the Galra, the Voltron paladins were duty bound to oppose, which was why they were on a mission to gather intelligence and sabotage where they could.  
  
It had gone well at first. The surface area of the rig, a wide, flat platform as large as a town with dozens of storage units and inactive machinery, was an excellent place to hide the Lions while they snuck into the under-water portions of the rig below. Shiro’s arm provided enough power and a stable interface for Pidge to pull data on the operation and store it away for examination later. And Hunk had been able to plant several charges at key points on the rig that were sure to destabilize and hopefully collapse it as soon as they were able to escape.   
  
But something had gone wrong, and the Galra had caught on that they were there. Maybe Shiro’s arm was still tagged in Galra tech as belonging to an escaped prisoner; maybe they’d been caught on surveillance feeds; maybe one of the Lions had been spotted. Whatever the case, sentries were coming out of the woodwork (or would that be metalwork?) with the intent to capture or kill, and Shiro had decided it wasn’t worth sticking around any longer. Hunk isn’t certain he’s planted enough charges at enough levels of the structure yet to completely eradicate it, especially with how fast the Galra repair things, but they’re out of time, and the mission is compromised. It’s time to get everyone out of there in one piece and study the intel Pidge had pulled.  
  
It isn’t easy, but they eventually force their way topside again. They spill out onto the wide metal platform sitting thirty feet above the surface of the ocean, on massive skyscraper-thick posts going down into the depths. The sky above them is a welcome sight after the claustrophobic hallways beneath the water; to Shiro, it had felt like the walls were pressing in on all sides, and there was nowhere to escape to with nothing but the ocean on the other side. It’s all too uncomfortably similar to being trapped in open space on an enemy ship with nowhere to run and no way to get out. It brings back uncomfortable sensations and stirs at the frightening memories tucked away in his mind somewhere, and it takes all of Shiro’s self-control to try and push back those uneasy feelings and focus on the matter at hand.  
  
So fresh air is a welcome relief, cool against his face, but just because they’ve reached the surface of the rig doesn’t mean the fight is over yet. The Lions are spread out on the other side of the structure, and even if their individual particle barriers are up, there’s still the threat of being cut off from their pilots, or stolen outright. By now, the Galra have to know the Lions are there, if the paladins are on board the refining platform. And there are only so many places one can hide building-sized robotic cats in various rainbow hues when one is actively searching for them.   
  
“Lance and Hunk, take the front!” Shiro orders. Now that they’re in open air, the blue and yellow paladins have the advantage with their ranged weaponry, and will be able to take down enemies from afar without risking friendly fire. “Pidge, Keith, maintain shields and take a breather. Go!”  
  
“Hear that?” Lance crows, as the team shifts positions—a drill they’ve practiced so often in training now they could probably do it in their sleep. “Lance is here to save the day! No need to thank me.”  
  
“I won’t,” Keith mutters, as he snaps up his shield in time to block an errant laser shot from taking Hunk in the side.   
  
Lance glares at him for a moment before readying his rifle bayard with a determined look, ostensibly to prove he can bring down more opponents than Keith. Shiro makes a mental note to talk about that later with the two of them, but now is not the place or the time for another lecture about rivalries as long as they’re all doing their part.   
  
Instead he starts to open his mouth to issue further instructions—and halts when a sudden series of muted _booms_ seem to rumble up through the metal ground beneath them. The entire structure starts to shudder alarmingly, and both paladins and Galra sentries alike stagger, shots going off-kilter as they struggle to right themselves.   
  
“What the heck was _that?_ ” Lance asks, incredulous.   
  
“The charges Hunk set are already going off!” Keith yells in answer, looking alarmed.   
  
“What? Hunk, the idea is to blow stuff up _after_ we’re off of it!”   
  
“It wasn’t me!” Hunk says defensively, wide eyed in alarm. “I wired it with a remote detonator, but I haven’t touched it yet. My hands are full!” He hefts his laser cannon as evidence, before firing it into a pack of sentries that are starting to recover their balance.  
  
“It’s not just the detonator,” Pidge says sharply. “The Galra must have used some sort of jamming signal to scramble our remote communications. Only the headsets are still working, it looks like. The data I was uploading to the castle just cut short too. It must’ve interfered with the signal!”  
  
There’s another _boom_ from below, and the entire structure sways alarmingly again. Several sentries stagger sideways, and Shiro spots quite a few toppling over the edge of the rig’s platform as the safety rails snap off and crash into the water.  
  
“Figure out the why later!” he orders sharply. “Move! Everyone get to their Lions and get in the air, _now!_ ”  
  
They need no further encouragement. The shaking is becoming more violent now, with the warehouses and storage units collapsing around them, and the metal paneling of the platform popping rivets and cracking frighteningly. But it also means the sentries are off balance and unable to aim properly, which means the paladins can stop focusing on defense and make an all-out break for it. Lance and Keith take off at a full sprint towards the southeast corner of the rig, where the Red and Blue Lions are placed, and Hunk and Pidge head due South, where the Yellow and Green Lions are.   
  
Shiro turns to head more East—the vast size of the Black Lion compared to the others made her difficult to hide, and he’d been forced to leave her separate from the rest. He leaps over several twisted, broken sentries trapped under a collapsed piece of warehouse, staggers, hits the ground, and rolls to his feet at another violent tremor, pushing for more speed.   
  
Even as he runs, he continues to give orders. “As soon as you’re in the air, cover the others. They’re bound to have sent out a distress signal, and there are probably incoming fighters, but no one is leaving until I’m sure everyone is off this rig and—“  
  
There’s a horrifying metallic screech as the entire platform beneath Shiro’s feet lurches sickeningly and drops a full forty five degrees beneath him. He hits the ground with a crash and scratches at the metal surface in surprise, trying to regain his balance and climb to a slightly more secure location, or at the very least prevent himself from sliding down further. Belatedly, he realizes he can use the Galra prosthetic to smash handholds into the now sickeningly sideways part of the platform he’s on, and shifts his arm back to activate it—  
  
—and something smashes into the side of his head. He thinks he hears a shattering noise, and even farther away his name, but it’s so dark and he feels so light and—  
  
—and—  
  
—and he wakes when something cold envelops him, wrapping around him and pressing from all sides. It’s wet and it’s dark, feels thick in his nose and tastes rank on his tongue, and when he opens his eyes they sting. It’s dark, but not as dark as it had been moments earlier. His vision is distorted, warping around him awkwardly, dark at the edges but above there’s a blur of light, surrounded by a halo of bubbles and—  
  
— _water,_ he realizes. _Ocean. I’m in the water. I fell. Must’ve blacked out when something hit me._  
  
The water here feels a little thicker than the oceans of Earth, and doesn’t taste like salt, but it’s familiar enough that he understands what’s happened to him quickly. He turns his head, wincing at the stab of pain that it elicits—whatever had hit him, probably more rubble, had hit _hard_. There’s debris in the water all around him—broken pieces of storehouses, pylons from the rig, bits of computer hardware from the blown out underwater regions. There’s sentries all around him too, many shattered or twisted beyond repair, others moving feebly as their heavy metal cases drag them down to the depths and the incredible pressure that will inevitably be their end.   
  
The water gets blacker the farther down Shiro looks, and he feels a sudden stab of fear at the thought of going down into it. Of disappearing silently into the gloom, never to be heard from again. Shiro stares into that endless blackness, and something buried deeply in his head stares back—the pitch black rooms, the _waiting_ , never knowing what would come for you, never knowing if you would survive the next session or the next battle, never knowing if living or dying would be worse, but knowing for certain they would put you back in the darkness to do it all again, until you only had your own heartbeat for company because it was so dark and silent and—  
  
He jerks his head away from the darkness below him with a start, eyes wide and stinging further, and lets out a choked noise reflexively. Precious bubbles of air stream away from him towards the surface, and that’s when he realizes he doesn’t have his breathing apparatus activated. Or his helmet, at all.  
  
In the back of his mind he realizes he must have lost it when he’d been hit by whatever debris had been dislodged. He remembers a shattering noise; he was probably lucky he’d had the helmet at all. Without it he’d likely be dead.   
  
He still could be, if he doesn’t do something to save himself. Without air he’s on a time limit, and he’s just foolishly given up some of his precious oxygen because he can’t keep the things in his head under lock and key.   
  
He can see the surface above him, farther away now, but at least he has a goal. He’s never been a champion swimmer, but he knows how, and he stretches his arms towards the surface to start paddling and pulling his way upward.  
  
Or, he tries to. His natural arm responds perfectly, but his metal arm doesn’t. It isn’t broken—he can flex it well enough, and he knows it’s waterproof. He can move it, but it’s difficult to move upwards, because his whole body seems to reorient itself around its weight…which is steadily dragging him downwards into the black depths.   
  
He realizes with a sick sort of horror that he’s permanently attached to an anchor. It doesn’t matter how many mechanisms the prosthetic has to compensate for its own weight for the user—at the end of the day it’s a hunk of metal mass denser than the water, and it is dragging him straight down. Shiro has a fleeting memory of watching old, classic mobster movies with his father, with the gangsters threatening the old cement shoes gimmick about ‘sleeping with the fishes.’ It had never seemed particularly practical when he’d watched the films, just pure Hollywood. Now that he has some personal experience to add to the memory, it just seems terrifying.  
  
He tries firing his jetpack to try and compensate for some of his arm’s weight, willing to risk boiling hot water burns if necessary—they can be healed in a cryo-pod. Death can’t. But the miniature thrusters mounted on the back of his paladin armor don’t react, and Shiro realizes whatever had hit him off of the Galra rig must have damaged more than just his helmet.   
  
He watches the surface slip farther and farther away from him, as the bright light blooming above the water fades and gets darker and darker. He hadn’t realized how fast he’d been sinking; all the debris around him has been plummeting into the depths just as fast, if not faster, making it hard to judge. He tries reaching upwards again with his natural arm, tries to force his heavy Galra arm to paddle or _something_ , but it’s worthless.   
  
His left arm reaches around and his real fingers dig at the armor of his right bicep, where he knows the metal of his prosthetic meets flesh, where he can feel the strain of the metal arm pulling at his stump and the rest of his body. But even if he wasn’t wearing the armor and could reach it, he knows it wouldn’t do him any good. The arm is permanently grafted to him, welded to bone and inserted into flesh, with nerves so interconnected it’s nearly impossible to tell where the natural ones end and the artificial ones begin. He’d have just as much luck trying to tear his real arm off.   
  
He realizes, with a terrifying sort of clarity, that he’s as good as dead. And it’s all because of this damn arm, this heavy, cursed _thing_ Galra had forced on him that he can never, ever escape from. He can’t call for help or send any kind of distress beacon without his helmet, and he’s rapidly running out of air without any kind of rebreather. The brightness of the surface is already gone, and he’s sinking ever deeper into that terrible darkness beneath him. It’s going to swallow him whole and he’s so tired, he can’t fight the heavy, useless weight, both physically and mentally, that his prosthetic holds. He’ll disappear into the blackness, so far from the sun and air and the stars and his friends, until the pressure crushes him into something neither human nor Galra. They’ll never be able to find his body. They’ll never know for sure what happened.   
  
_It’s funny,_ he thinks, even though it’s not funny at all, _how people back home think I’ve died out in the blackest depths of space, but dying like this in the ocean won’t be much different at all._  
  
He’s starting to feel the painful burn in his lungs now as his body starts to register that he needs _air_ , and tries to force him to breathe in. He resists stubbornly, gritting his teeth hard against the natural urge to breath in what he knows will be wet, watery death. It’s stupid to keep fighting—he knows he doesn’t have a chance—but he’s always been stupidly stubborn about fighting when everything seems lost. It’s in the very core of his being, something he’s held on to despite his year of capture, lost memories, and enlistment as a paladin of Voltron. He is Shiro, and even if he’s going to die, even if it’s going to be a terrifying way to go, he’s going to fight until the bitter end.  
  
But the bitter end’s getting closer. It’s already dark and difficult to see, and his eyes are still stinging in the mineral-crusted water, but he can tell his vision is starting to get blurrier and grayer around the edges. His body tries to force him to breathe again, and he chokes slightly with the effort of not. His right arm is starting to throb at the port from the tugging strain the prosthetic puts on the connection point of his flesh. Spots start to dance in front of his vision, bright streaks that seem to bob through the gloom as they get steadily bigger before his eyes…  
  
No, he realizes after a moment. It’s getting harder to think, harder to focus, due to the lack of air, but he comes to the baffling realization that those spots aren’t actually spots at all. It’s not his vision failing due to a lack of oxygen; there’s really something moving through the water, coming towards him from above, trailing teal streaks through the gloom. At first his thoughts conjure hazy visions of phosphorescent fish he’s seen in documentaries and aquariums, and it takes his weakening mind a precious long time to remember he’s not on Earth anymore, and he doesn’t remember seeing any wildlife like that so far.   
  
It takes him even longer to make out the white patches through the murky darkness of the ocean, dulled to a more grayish color in the near lightless water, but after a moment he’s able to make the connection—teal light strips and white patches. Paladin armor. It takes him longer to make out the color, because the blue melds so well into the ocean. Lance is only a few feet away before Shiro recognizes him, largely in part due to the way the helmet’s mask lights up his face just slightly in the darkness.   
  
Lance, Shiro realizes, is a surprisingly powerful swimmer. Even in full armor and chasing someone weighed down with a heavy metal prosthetic, Lance manages to keep up surprisingly well with strong strokes, maneuvering in the water like he was born to it. This makes sense to Shiro’s hazy mind, actually. The Blue Lion is associated with water and ice; it would deserve a pilot equally suited to the environment. At least, he thinks. He’s not really sure, at this point. It’s hard to focus with the way his head is spinning and his lungs are burning, and…  
  
His back arches slightly and his whole body bucks as he instinctively tries to breathe in again, now desperate for air. He clenches his mouth shut, but not before gagging and losing the last of his precious air, the bubbles twirling away above him.   
  
Shiro’s vision is going even grayer, but he thinks Lance is near enough to make out his wide eyes. They look alarmed, like he’s afraid of something, and his mouth is moving like he’s shouting something. Shiro can’t hear it—Lance is wearing his paladin helmet fully closed with the rebreather function on, and Shiro isn’t connected to the comms without his own helmet. He shakes his head, wincing when it jars his injury and sets his whole brain on fire again.   
  
Lance grimaces, although Shiro can’t tell if it’s frustration or panic or something else, and reaches out to grab Shiro’s natural wrist. Almost immediately he starts sinking further with Shiro as the metal arm proceeds to drag _both_ of them down. Shiro’s eyes widen in alarm. He’s already going to die—he can’t, he _can’t,_ drag Lance down with him, literally or otherwise, _can’t_ subject Lance to the Galra curse he was given. Lance doesn’t deserve it. He’s already been conscripted into a war he never asked for; he _has_ to survive so he can get home to the massive family he loves and misses and never stops talking about. _Somebody_ has to make it back.   
  
He’s exhausted and every part of his body _hurts_ from the lack of air and he can barely focus anymore, but he understands that this one thing is very important. He thrashes his natural wrist—feebly compared to his usual levels of strength, but still a monumental effort—trying to dislodge Lance’s grip.   
  
Lance’s grip, unfortunately, is shockingly strong, and he refuses to let go.   
  
It’s unacceptable, and Shiro acts on impulse to do what he always does in a situation like this, when Lance is misbehaving. He tries to shout at him, to _let go, get to the surface, make sure the other are okay,_ and the cold water starts to fill his mouth—  
  
Lance’s eyes widen in alarm and he hastily slaps his free hand, the one not gripping Shiro’s wrist, over his superior officer’s nose and mouth. The grip is so tight it’s almost painful, and Shiro can feel a number of things flashing through his head all at once— _surprisefearangerconfusion_ —but somehow the only distinct thought he can form is annoyance at this new form of teenagerly insubordination and that he should probably give him the mother of all lectures later. Assuming there is a later. Which there probably won’t be. He can think lectures at him, maybe. He can…he can…why was he…was he angry at something? He can’t…  
  
He blinks dazedly at Lance, too tired and disoriented to fight the tight grips on his wrist or jaw anymore. Lance flashes him a grin that Shiro can barely make out through his rapidly greying vision anymore, and mouths something slowly and carefully. Shiro has just enough focus left to make out what he thinks, maybe, possibly, is _just relax, I got this._  
  
Shiro’s not sure if Lance _does_ ‘got this,’ but he knows he certainly doesn’t anymore. The only thing he’s really aware of now is _pain_ —the way his whole body aches for breath, the way the remains of his right arm are throbbing and it feels like it’s tearing from the pressure of being dragged, the way his head feels like it’s being stabbed every time he moves it even slightly. His lungs struggle to breathe in again, but Lance’s palm is unrelentingly firm over his nose and mouth, taking over for Shiro’s decaying, exhausted willpower, and Shiro feels like he’s burning alive inside.   
  
Unable to breathe in the air he so desperately needs, Shiro finds his consciousness finally starting to give up on him. The world spins, and his eyes start to roll back. Sensations come in flashes and pieces he can’t quite piece together. Lance’s face, no longer grinning but terrified, shouting something he can’t hear. Something, an arm maybe, wrapping around his torso more solidly. Something touching at his face, pressing against his head injury, sending a spike of pain through him that still barely causes him to twitch. A snug, comfortable sensation around his head, and the firm, painful grip over his nose and mouth disappearing.   
  
The pressing feeling of the water all around him, gone. Lightness and coolness over his face. Air.   
  
_Air._   
  
He sucks in his first breath of air with a rattling gasp. It’s _agony_ , stabbing into his chest like a hundred different knives, and he hacks and gags at some of the water he’d managed to swallow before Lance had covered his face. He coughs and breathes, and then breathes again, and then breathes _again_ , and it hurts but at the same time it feels like _Heaven._   
  
His mind and body feel shaky, but he can feel some of his awareness returning with his resupply of oxygen, and slowly his senses seem to come back online. He hadn’t realized, until that very moment when it all starts to come back, just how badly he’d been fading. Just how close he’d been to death.   
  
First he opens his eyes, and finds that he’s still in the dark water, still sinking, still being dragged down by that cursed arm. He can still feel the throbbing pressure on his port, but now that he can breathe he can force that down to manageable levels to deal with later. Lance is still there, too, still clinging to Shiro’s natural wrist as he sinks ever downward with him. But he’s much more visible now, clear and sharp and distinct, and—  
  
And he’s not wearing his helmet anymore. His cheeks are bulging slightly with the breath he’d last taken from his helmet before…before he’d transferred it to _Shiro_. Shiro’s eyes widen as he realizes that the snug feeling around his head is the familiar feeling of the paladin helm he’s so used to, but it’s not the black one, it’s the _blue_. Lance had put it on him and activated the rebreather again to get him the air he so desperately needed.   
  
But now _Lance_ is the one without air. Lance is now the one with a time limit, and he’s chained himself to a sinking rock, still adamantly refusing to let go of his leader’s wrist to save himself.   
  
“Damn it, Lance!” Shiro manages to half yell, half choke. “This isn’t what—Get out of here—“  
  
He tries to reach for the helmet to yank it off and shove it back at Lance—the kid needs it more than him, deserves to survive and go home to his family more than him. But Lance tugs his wrist away from the helm before he ever gets close, and the metal one is too heavy for him to lift close enough.   
  
_“No,”_ Shiro gasps insistently, even as his treacherous lungs continue to greedily breathe in air, “C’mon, kid, you need it just as much as me, c’mon, Lance, let go, take it back _now_ , that’s an order—“  
  
He’s aware of noise in his ears that sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite make it out just yet, too focused as he is on Lance’s face. Because the kid is…smiling? It’s hard to tell around the bulging cheeks and the occasional stream of bubbles that escape his nose, but he doesn’t _look_ like he’s drowning. He still keeps a firm grip on Shiro’s natural wrist, refusing to let them be separated, but he doesn’t appear panicked. And Shiro knows Lance well enough by now to know the kid _will_ express his panic with a situation if he’s feeling it.   
  
Instead, Lance shakes his head quickly, and to Shiro’s surprise, _winks_. With his free hand, he makes a couple of gestures that are very clear even in the gloomy water with the visual enhancements of the blue helm; a peace sign, a jabbing point upward, some sort of clawing motion, and finally a thumbs up.   
  
Shiro’s mind is recovering rapidly but not _quite_ rapidly enough to make out the full meaning of Lance’s cryptic gestures, which are difficult to interpret even in non threatening situations. That’s when Shiro realizes the continual noise in his ear that’s been bothering him for the last few moments are actually voices, and it clicks that he’s hearing the others on the comms, through Lance’s helmet.  
  
 _“—t’s okay Shiro, just calm down—“_  
  
 _“—had to get you air, you were drowning, Lance is fine—“_  
  
 _“—there’s a plan, just hang on—“_  
  
And then, muffled and sounding far away, there’s a furious, animal roar, and someone yells, _“Hold on, we freed her, she’s coming!”_  
  
Shiro blinks in confusion, and stares at Lance. The blue paladin’s running low on air, but his grin appear to have gotten bigger, if possible. Shiro is just starting to wonder if the lack of oxygen has made either himself or Lance—or both of them—start to lose their minds, when he sees a flash of light in the darkness.  
  
For one bewildering moment he could swear there is a train approaching, or perhaps a car. It looks like headlights driving towards them in the water, cutting through the darkness and getting steadily bigger. Shiro has just about decided that it’s definitely _him_ who lost his mind for lack of oxygen, when the shape gets a little closer, and Shiro realizes the “headlights” are actually the eyes of one of the Lions. Five seconds later, it’s close enough for Shiro to make out the white and blue muzzle of the Blue Lion, cutting through the ocean water like a submarine straight for them.  
  
But Lance is here _with him_ , not piloting her. But…but Shiro remembers when he and Pidge had explored the destroyed Galra ship on Arus, and how the Black and Green Lions had independently come to defend them, without requiring a pilot in such an emergency. Their pilots had been in peril, and they had known exactly where to go to protect them and had taken action as needed.  
  
And Shiro, with a sudden jolt, realizes how shockingly well thought out Lance’s rescue had been. Because the Blue Lion is the _only_ one of the Voltron Lions capable of traveling the ocean at such depths, and if her pilot was in mortal peril—say, of nearly drowning—she would be able to make a perfect beeline for him. Lance had deliberately made himself a beacon in order to not only find Shiro in time before he could be lost to the depths, but to make sure the _only_ thing capable of rescuing either of them came straight to them before it was too late.  
  
The Blue Lion is close enough for a rescue now, and her jaw hatch opens as she powers forward, scooping the two of them up into her giant metal maw. The jaws snap shut, the water begins to drain as the interior becomes airtight again, and the paladins sink to the metal floor of the Lion’s ‘tongue.’ As soon Shiro’s knees hit the floor and the water is gone he’s doubled forward and gagging, as he finally manages to tear the blue helmet off and cough up the water he’d managed to swallow. Beside him, Lance is also on his hands and knees, gasping for air as he breathes deeply.   
  
Lance is the first to recover, and taps the metal beneath his fingers fondly. “Thanks, Blue,” he gasps, grinning slightly. There’s an answering rumble that reverberates up Shiro’s arms and legs, which is presumably a ‘you’re welcome.’   
  
Shiro, to his frustration, takes much longer to recover. His lungs still burn from the ordeal, and his whole body feels heavy. In an uncomfortable contrast, the Galra arm responsible for nearly drowning him due to its weight feels lighter than the rest of his body now that he’s not floating in water and the mechanisms are allowed to work properly again. He’s able to flex and lift it with relative ease, other than the residual throbbing around the port where metal meets flesh. It’s like it’s mocking him. He wishes he could tear it off and throw it across the…mouth. But he knows it’ll never happen. He’s stuck with this awful thing for good, and somehow, he knows one way or another this arm is going to be the death of him somehow.  
  
“You okay, Shiro?”   
  
Shiro blinks, and glances up. Lance is kneeling in front of him, looking concerned, with the blue helmet Shiro had discarded under one arm. Shiro can faintly hear the yelling of the other three paladins, tinny and distant with unintelligible words, from the helm’s comm system.   
  
“You didn’t swallow too much, did you? I thought I got to you in time, but…” Lance frowns. “Well, maybe Coran can fix you up later. You’re not having trouble breathing, right? Is your head hurting? It looks like it stopped bleeding…”  
  
“No. No, I’m…I’m fine. Just some coughing. Headache. It’ll pass.” Shiro looks down again, staring at the metal palm pressed to the interior of the Blue Lion’s mouth, hating the thing again for putting him in this situation. For putting _Lance_ in the situation where _he’d_ nearly died too.   
  
That settles his resolve a little more. He clenches the prosthetic hand closed with a click of metal on metal, feels his shakiness and terror of the endless blackness recede to make way for his control and his sternness.   
  
“What were you _thinking?_ ” he says sharply, settling back into a crouch as he glares at Lance. “That was completely reckless! Any _number_ of things could have gone wrong. You could have _died!_ Why didn’t you follow my orders and get to your Lion first?”  
  
Lance’s eyes widen for a second, in an expression Shiro is well used to; it’s the same face he wears whenever Shiro cuts him off in the middle of a pickup line or some other out of line comment. For half a second he looks contrite, and Shiro expects that will be the end of it. Lance will argue with any single other paladin until he’s blue in the face, but he always stops when Shiro orders him to, like he knows better than to cross that line.  
  
But before Shiro can dive any further into the lecture, Lance surprises him. The contrite look shifts into one of incredulity and exasperation. And then Lance says, with the tone of one lecturing a younger sibling, “Shiro. _C’mon_. Your arm is made out of metal and we’re on a _water planet._ Every single one of us knew even if you were the best swimmer on Earth, the moment you hit the water you were gonna sink like a rock. I mean, that arm is pretty sweet and all, but I figure the guys who made it for you didn’t have Olympic backstrokes in mind.”  
  
That’s the understatement of the year, Shiro thinks. Galra never had any underwater arenas, or even any variation in their environments other than the occasional change in the obstacles one could hide behind. He’d never been forced to be fully submerged since he got the arm.   
  
And, now that he thinks about it, he realizes with surprise that he’s never even considered the danger his prosthetic might present in certain kinds of environments before. He’d been swimming in the past on Earth, before the failed Kerberos mission, and water had never frightened him before. This planet’s ocean had made him anxious with its darkness and its inescapability while below the surface in the rig itself, but he’d never considered for a second what would happen if he’d dived—or fallen—into the water after his right arm had been replaced. The only time water had ever concerned him with his new arm was before he learned it was waterproof, and he’d been afraid of shorting it out somehow.  
  
What impresses him even more is the fact that the rest of the paladins _had_ considered it. He’s not sure how to feel about that. Logically it makes sense—Coran and Allura have been drilling the paladin code into their brains, and one of the most important rules is looking out for your fellow teammates. Shiro’s newly discovered weakness to deep bodies of water would need to be compensated for when on a planet that was ninety-seven percent ocean. But still, an irrational part of Shiro hates that these kids that are _supposed_ to be under his command and his protection have to plan ahead to compensate for a weakness he hasn’t even _considered_ , and take stupid risks to their own lives to try and cover for them. A real leader should _never_ put his men in that kind of position.   
  
Lance is watching him with an expectant, raised eyebrow, and Shiro shakes his head, breaking from his thoughts and showing his disagreement at the same time. “Even so,” he says, “You should have gotten to the Blue Lion first and come after when your safety was secured. You could have gotten yourself killed. This thing would have dragged you down too.” He flexes his metal fingers. “That was an unacceptable risk to take, and you should _not_ have disobeyed orders.”  
  
“Disobeyed orders? _What_ orders?” Lance drawls, with that smug, trolling smirk he likes to wear when he’s annoying one of the others. “The last orders _I_ heard you yell were ‘no one is leaving until I’m sure everyone is off this rig.’ I was _following_ orders, if you want to get technical.”   
  
“You know full well that’s not what I meant!”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t think I do,” Lance says, still wearing that shit-eating grin, as he raises from a crouch to a stand.   
  
His expression sobers a moment later, though, and he says more seriously, “Look, Shiro, _if_ I did what you said and got to Blue first, we’d never have found you in the water, and you know it. You’d have been too deep or lost in all that debris, or you’d have already breathed in too much water, assuming we could even figure out where to look. You were already out of time when I got to you. We knew what we were doing. _I_ knew what I was doing. And I mean, Allura says I’m supposed to be the guardian of water or something with Blue, so this is kinda my job, right?”   
  
Shiro blinks at him in surprise. Lance is rarely completely serious—he seems to think it’s his sworn duty to goof around or bicker with the paladins at every opportunity. But that means when he _is_ serious, his words somehow seem to have more weight to them, and it’s important to listen. And Lance isn’t _wrong_ here. He’d made a risky call, and Shiro still wasn’t happy with it, but it hadn’t been the wrong one. Both Lance and his Lion were in an environment tailor-made for them and had done what was needed to protect the rest of the team. It had been thought out relatively well for a plan that had to be conceived and executed so quickly, and it had been successful.   
  
And a deeper, darker part of Shiro realizes Lance is correct too in his assumption that, had he taken the path Shiro argued for, he _would_ be dead. Lance hadn’t been wrong there either; even with the choice he’d made he’d barely made it to Shiro in time. Had he waited any longer, Shiro would have slipped so far into the darkness below, dragged down by his hated Galra arm, they’d never find his body, not even if they searched for hours.   
  
He can’t suppress a fine shudder from running through him at the thought of being lost forever in that cold blackness.   
  
“Shiro?”  
  
Shiro blinks, and glances up at Lance again. The blue paladin looks concerned again, and after a moment tentatively extends his hand—the left one, not the right still wrapped around his helmet. Shiro takes it, grateful it’s his natural arm—the port of his Galra prosthetic is still throbbing slightly—and Lance helps him to his feet.   
  
Shiro feels a surge of gratefulness for the kid. Lance can be a handful, and he’s the one Shiro most often reprimands, but his heart is always in the right place. He places his hand on Lance’s shoulder as the kid turns to head for the cockpit of the Blue Lion, and when Lance halts, he mutters, “Thanks.”  
  
Lance blinks, and then grins, this time more genuine and proud than trolling. “No prob. Me’n Blue got your back whenever we’re near water. Just call me Lance the Lifeguard.”   
  
Shiro’s lips quirk slightly. “I think just Lance is fine.”  
  
Lance heads for the pilot’s seat and Shiro follows, listening as the teenager starts rambling. Now that the seriousness of the situation is over, Lance appears ecstatic about being able to lord his rescue over Keith. “He wanted to jump in after you too,” Lance says with a smirk, “‘cause we were both the closest when you went in. But I told him no, no _way_ , water is _my_ territory, and Red can’t swim worth a damn. And Pidge and Hunk actually agreed with me, can you believe it, they said they’d be better off freeing the Lions from the Galra blockade to come after us. _Hah!_ In your _face,_ Keith, I told you I’d be the one to rescue Shiro! That’s two times to your one!”  
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow at that. He hadn’t realized rescuing him had become something of a competition. That might be another thing he needs to talk to the two of them about…but later.   
  
Holoscreens pop up all around the cockpit as Lance takes his seat and starts guiding the Blue Lion to the surface, and Shiro glances around at the faces of Keith, Pidge and Hunk, all clearly in their own Lions.   
  
“Shiro!” Keith is the first to speak, looking relieved. “Thank God, we heard you on the comms but then you disappeared again, and we weren’t sure…”  
  
“I took off Lance’s helmet,” Shiro reassures. “Sorry. I’m fine. We’re both fine. We’re heading for the surface now. How’s everything looking up above?”  
  
“Hunk’s charges did the job,” Pidge says. “That rig is completely falling apart. There’s a few pieces left that we can take shots at in a little bit, but we’re kinda busy at the moment.”  
  
“We rescued the Black Lion for you,” Hunk explains, at Shiro’s confused noise. “After we freed Blue from the lockdown the Galra set up so she could go after you guys, we got to our own Lions, and then grabbed Black so she wouldn’t sink.”   
  
Shiro feels a stab of grateful relief at that. Besides Blue, the Lions weren’t really made for water travel. Being underwater wouldn’t damage their systems any unless they were so deep they succumbed to the pressure, but they wouldn’t be able to maneuver well, especially without a pilot to guide them. The thought of his Lion being lost in those murky, cloying depths…he shudders again, thankful that Lance is preoccupied and can’t see it, and digs his metal fingers into the top of the pilot’s chair so hard the metal creaks.   
  
“Thank you,” he says. “For saving both of us.”   
  
“No prob,” Hunk says, looking pleased, and the others grin.   
  
“I grabbed your helmet too,” Keith adds. “We found it near where you went in. It’s broken up pretty bad, but maybe Coran has a way to fix it.”  
  
“I’m sure he does.” Shiro hopes he does. If submerging is going to be an issue in the future for him, he definitely wants to be sure he at least has some kind of functioning rebreather.   
  
When Lance breaks the surface with the Blue Lion five minutes later—and Shiro is genuinely shocked at how far down they managed to sink—it’s to the amusing sight of the Black Lion flopped over the Yellow one like she had a little too much to drink. the Green and Red Lions are hovering on either side of her, shoulder to shoulder, carefully helping to support her in the air. On occasion, Pidge or Keith fire off a shot from the tail cannons to keep the Galra fighters starting to swarm at a safe distance, but it’s clear they’re starting to get a little too close for comfort.  
  
“Get me over there,” Shiro orders Lance. “As soon as I’m in Black we’re getting out of here. I think we’ve done enough damage for the day.”   
  
“You good to fly?” Lance asks, softer than usual, giving Shiro a concerned look out the corner of his eye. But even as he asks, he cranks the controls forward, and the Blue Lion swoops forward smoothly towards Black.  
  
Shiro keeps his expression stern and leaderlike, but inwardly he has to fight to not quirk his lips in a tiny smile. As much as it irks him to fail as a leader so badly the others have to compensate for his weaknesses, it is almost amusing to see Lance like this. The blue paladin has apparently decided Shiro is his responsibility for the duration of the mission, leader or not. For all his bickering and his rivalries, it’s touching to see Lance’s genuine concern for his leader, too.   
  
But out loud he says, “I’ll be fine. Hurry, those fighters are getting closer and the others can’t move until I’m piloting again.”   
  
And Lance does as he’s told, easing the Blue Lion up until she’s nose to nose with Black and hovering carefully in place in time with the others. His piloting has gotten better and a little more subtle, and Shiro is able to leap between the open mouths of the Blue and Black Lions with little risk to his own life. Settling into his own pilot’s seat is like coming home, and he can feel the Black Lion’s concern and relief as he wraps his hands around the controls and the cockpit lights up around him.  
  
“Everyone,” he orders, as their holoscreens snap up all around him again, and Hunk, Pidge and Keith all disengage, “Let’s go home.”   
  
And they do. _All_ of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really entertained by the idea of Shiro just sinking like a rock the moment he’s fully submerged, and the team having to assign somebody to rescue him in the event of an underwater emergency. It must be a holdover from my One Piece days :P
> 
> Next up is Pidge!


	3. Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incoming psychology babble!

“Good work, team,” Shiro says, as the rest of the paladins collapse to the training deck floor, breathing hard, sweating, and exhausted. They’re tired, but they look proud, too, and as far as Shiro’s concerned they deserve it. As a team they had finally managed to defeat a gladiator set on a level five combat session for the first time today. And while they were completely worn out and incapable of further combat, it was a clear mark of progress for all of them. Even weary, panting hard, and stretched out on the floor where they’d collapsed, each one looks supremely satisfied.  
  
Shiro—the only one left standing—summarizes his observations of the team as they stare up at him. “Hunk, good job with the cover fire while Keith was knocked down. You’re getting much better at using that cannon without any friendly fire mishaps. Lance, great sharpshooting, knocking the gladiator’s weapon out of its hands was an excellent way to disarm the opponent and protect the rest of the team. Keith, Pidge, your tag team maneuver to trip the opponent and engage it when off balance was smart and well executed. Everyone did a great job looking out for each other today.”  
  
“Someone needs to say something nice about Shiro now,” Lance drawls from the floor, waving one hand absently in the air before letting it flop back down near his head.   
  
“That’s really not necessary,” Shiro says, barely suppressing a grimace—of pain or of displeasure he’s really not sure. Maybe both. He can feel the tightness in his right arm, the clenched, throbbing sensation that’s been getting worse all day, and it takes everything he has to keep clear evidence of that pain from worming its way further into his expression. His metal fingers flex involuntarily at his side. _Clench. Unclench. Again._ No, he definitely hadn’t done anything useful in today’s match; his arm had been bothering him too much for him to use it successfully, or concentrate on firing up the Galra prosthetic’s abilities. Most of his attacks had been comparatively weak, and he’d been a distraction at best for the opponent. Lance’s disarming maneuver had actually been to keep Shiro from being hit.   
  
Of course, disappointed and frustrated as he is in his own performance, he is also incredibly proud of the rest of the paladins for theirs. Today’s victory had essentially been theirs, and he can really see their progress. They’ve come a long way since the day the five of them stumbled into a giant blue robot lion and flew halfway across the known universe.  
  
Lance seems disappointed with Shiro’s answer, and the others look thoughtful, like they’re trying to come up with a high point in Shiro’s battle performance. They must be having a difficult time of it today, not that Shiro can blame them. Usually at least one of them will enthuse about how easily he can smash up robots with his Galra arm or how cool he looks while doing it.   
  
He wants to smile slightly at the thought, but his hand gives another painful _squeeze_ , and his metal fingers flex convulsively. _Clench. Unclench._ Again.   
  
“Go get cleaned up,” Shiro orders, interrupting their thoughts. “Take a break and rest. Dinner will be in a few hours, you’re all free until then.”  
  
Hunk’s eyes light up, and Lance actually manages to lift his head off the floor in his excitement. “You’re letting us out early? I thought we were supposed to be training for another hour!”  
  
Shiro raises an amused eyebrow. “I can certainly find something else for you to do if you want—“  
  
“No, no, no no no, that’s not what I said at all,” Lance says hastily, raising his arms and waving them in a very energetic gesture of _hell no._ He kicks to his feet and starts backpedaling for the door. “We’re done, you called it, so I’m just gonna get out of here—“  
  
“We’re just confused,” Pidge says, sitting up and crossing her legs as she stares up at Shiro with a raised eyebrow. “You never let us out early.”  
  
“You guys just beat a level five gladiator,” Shiro says. “You’ve been working at that for weeks. I think you deserve a reward.”  
  
“We,” Keith corrects. He also rolls into a crouch, and slowly unfolds into a stand. “You mean _we’ve_ been working at it for weeks. You’re a part of this too.”  
  
“Sure,” Shiro acknowledges, not willing to make a fight out of it, even if he does consider the victory theirs. The painful throb is getting worse, steady, constant now. _Clench. Unclench_. The gears in his arm whir as he moves the fingers, the metal digits clink as they contract and unfold again. It doesn’t help. _Clench. Unclench._ Again.   
  
“I’m not going to argue with that,” Hunk says, as he, too, clambers slowly to his feet, bending backwards to stretch his spine with a groan of satisfaction. “Maybe I can get into the kitchen early and head off Coran at the pass. Otherwise he’ll try to make us another paladin victory dinner.”   
  
All of them grimace despite themselves at the memory of the monstrosity that came out of the kitchen when they brought down the level four gladiator. Shiro had thought the paladin lunch was bad until he’d seen whatever it was Coran had produced; now he’d take ten paladin lunches over _whatever_ that had been any day of the week.  
  
 _Clench. Unclench._ Again.   
  
“I second that motion,” Lance says from the far end of the room, still edging for the door. “No more victory dinners, _ever._ ” The others express various degrees of agreement as they trickle out the door. It takes something truly off-putting or deadly to get Keith and Lance to agree so easily on anything, and Shiro listens to them fondly until all four of the other paladins are out of sight and hearing down the hallway.  
  
When they’re gone, Shiro finally lets the tension drop out of his shoulders, and his upright posture sags just slightly. He winces again at the twisted sensation in his right-handed fingers, the way they’re squeezing so tightly he’s sure the bones ought to snap by now. He stares down at his metal fingers in frustration, and slowly clenches and unclenches the hand again, this time while watching intently.  
  
Like it has a hundred times before today, it does nothing. Shiro closes his eyes in frustration, and tries breathing in through his nose, holding it for several seconds, and out through his mouth. Again. A third time. The breathing exercise doesn’t help reduce the pain any, but it does at least give his mind something to focus on besides how much his arm is killing him.  
  
“Is your hand malfunctioning?”  
  
Shiro jerks in surprise, eyes snapping open and searching wildly. His metal fingers spark as the arm’s abilities flicker to life, but his hand throbs again a moment later, and the charged energy dissipates as fast as it arrived. Shiro winces slightly at the tightness in his muscles and the strain in his tendons before he can stop himself.   
  
Pidge blinks at him once from five feet away, and looks apologetic a moment later. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you when you were doing that breathing thing. Actually I didn’t mean to sneak up on you at all, I thought you knew I was here, but—“  
  
“It’s fine, Pidge,” Shiro cuts off the rambling, offering a weak smile to mask the grinding of his teeth as his right hand clenches tighter. He flexes his metal fingers again. _Clench. Unclench._ Nothing.   
  
Pidge frowns, and cocks her head to the side. “So. Is it?”  
  
“Is what?”  
  
“Your hand. Malfunctioning.” She gestures to his prosthetic again, where his metal fingers close and open, close and open. “It’s been doing that all day. It’s always the same movement. Did something get stuck? Can you not control it?”  
  
Shiro frowns. He has been maneuvering his Galra prosthetic like this all day. But he thought he’d been more subtle about it, only doing it when the others weren’t paying attention, or hiding it behind his side or back. “No, it’s fine. I have full control over it. Nothing’s malfunctioning.”   
  
Pidge gives him a suspicious look. “If it’s totally fine, why were you having so much trouble in practice today?” She gestures at the deactivated gladiator bot, still collapsed on the training room floor where the paladins had finally brought it down. “Normally you’re right up there in its face trying to keep it off of the rest of us. Well, I mean, it doesn’t have a face exactly, but you know what I mean. You’re normally all about the close combat.”  
  
“Pidge—“  
  
“And earlier,” Pidge presses, “When we did the meditation exercise with the headsets, you were pretty slow visualizing the Black Lion too. Normally you’re the first one to clear your mind. I snuck a peek when we were visualizing—“  
  
“Pidge, you’re supposed to keep your eyes closed for that exercise—“  
  
“—and I noticed you had your prosthetic in your lap, and the fingers were doing _that_ the whole time too.” She gestures, and Shiro realizes that even as she’s been talking he’s been clenching and unclenching the metal fingers again unconsciously. He grimaces at his lack of control, and forces them still. The tension in his fingers increases.   
  
“So what gives, Shiro? If it’s malfunctioning I can take a look under the hood, see if I can fix it,” Pidge offers. “there might be something out of alignment, or maybe there’s a power source screwed up somewhere. Galra tech is weird, it might not take much to make it twitchy.”   
  
She looks sincere, like she genuinely wants to help. Shiro definitely believes she does, although he suspects at least part of her offer comes from a desire to take apart Galra tech and reverse engineer it. She’s been obsessed with learning everything she can from that Galra crystal Sendak left behind, and she’s been fascinated with the way his own arm can power Galra consoles since their discovery on the downed ship on Arus. Shiro’s been cautious about letting anyone handle the arm (apart from Hunk, for cleaning maintenance) due to how dangerous it could potentially be, but this would provide the perfect opportunity to not only help him out but study too.  
  
Of course, for once it’s not actually the Galra prosthetic that’s causing him grief, or at least it’s not the source of it. “Sorry, Pidge,” he says with a shrug that causes him to wince, “there’s really nothing wrong with it. I can move it just fine, it’s not malfunctioning.”   
  
Pidge’s suspicious look intensifies, and her eyes flick to the Galra palm, which is…shit, which is clenching and unclenching again. _Damn it._ He’s not even thinking about it anymore, he just wants the tension to stop.   
  
“Prove it,” she says, giving him a narrow eyed look. “Wiggle all your fingers.”  
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow, but raises his prosthetic like he’s about to take a pledge, and slowly wiggles each finger, ending with his thumb. “Satisfied?”  
  
She shakes her head and snatches his metal arm by the wrist. “Move this one,” she instructs, pointing at his metal index finger. Shiro can feel it straining, twisting so far it’s going through his palm, but obligingly wiggles the metal index finger, and then folds all the others to point with it.   
  
Pidge frowns now, more in confusion than suspicion, and points at another. “This one.” Shiro moves that one independently too as instructed, and another after that, until she tries to coax him into leaving only his middle finger up. He gives her a warning look, and she laughs, finally releasing his wrist. “Okay, okay,” she concedes, “it’s not malfunctioning. I believe you. About _that_ , anyway.” The frown returns. “So what’s wrong?”  
  
“Wrong?”  
  
“Maybe your prosthetic isn’t malfunctioning, but something’s still wrong,” Pidge insists, crossing her arms. “You _were_ off your game today, and that’s not you. You’re normally the one coaching us through bonding and focusing, but today you seemed distracted. I don’t think you lit up your arm once. And if your prosthetic isn’t doing _that_ on its own—“  
  
—she gestures, where his metal fingers have automatically started clenching and unclenching again, _damn it_ —  
  
“—then it’s got to be something _you’re_ doing, so what gives?”  
  
Shiro sighs. “Pidge—“  
  
“Uh-uh, you’re not gonna _‘Pidge’_ me with that tone,” she says, crossing her arms. “You’re the one insisting we need to look out for each other all the time. You don’t get to be exempt just because you’re the leader.” She cocks her head again, and then asks slowly, more cautious, “Is it phantom pain?”  
  
Shiro blinks in surprise. “How do you know about that?”  
  
She shrugs. “I read a lot. Or, I did, back before…” She shrugs again. “Well?”  
  
Shiro hesitates a moment. But he knows Pidge isn’t going to back down until she gets a concrete explanation for his actions, and she can be _quite_ stubborn about getting answers when she wants to be. The fact that she nearly got herself blown up by the robot-Myzax just to try downloading Galra prison logs was proof enough of that.   
  
So he sighs again and, after a moment, nods. Pidge’s guess had been very accurate; Shiro has experienced several kinds of phantom limb sensations ever since receiving the Galra prosthetic, and they never stop being uncomfortable to downright painful.   
  
Sometimes it’s just the awkward sensation of his flesh arm still being there, even with the cybernetic one still in place, creating the strange and unbalanced sensation of having three arms. Sometimes it’s irritating but not agonizing, like having an itch on his wrist or forearm that he can’t scratch. That’s maddening in its own way, the stronger the sensation gets without being satisfied, but he can deal with it if he distracts himself with something else like training, or focuses it away with meditation.   
  
But the worst are the phantom pains.   
  
When Shiro had heard about phantom limb pain in the past, he’d envisioned amputees experiencing their limb severing injuries again, or stabbing pains, or some other such similar agonies. And sometimes he will still feel things like that, most often after a nightmare, when dark memories claw their way out of the recesses of his brain and force him to relive the awful things he’s forgotten. He can feel those fresh agonies all over again then, even on his severed limb that isn’t there anymore but still feels like it is.  
  
But more often for Shiro, his phantom pains manifest as his right arm being twisted unnaturally out of alignment, or clenching so tightly his hand feels petrified. The muscles and tendons will feel so tense that the strain becomes agonizing, or he feels his nails digging into his palms so sharply they’re sliced open, or sometimes his fingers twist so impossibly out of place they should be broken. When the pains start they’re bad enough, but over the course of the day the strain becomes steadily worse as his hand seems to keep _tightening_ to an impossible degree. The pain increases until it’s a steady, ever present agony racing up his arm and clawing continuously at the back of his mind. It becomes difficult to focus on anything else then, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do to counter it.  
  
Perhaps the most frustrating and agonizing them about them, though, is that it _should_ have the easiest solution in the world. Shiro knows that if he could just unclench his hand slowly, let his fingers flex to work feeling back into them, everything would be fine again. There’s no magic cure-all needed, no difficult and complex solution. Just open his hand.   
  
That’s it, but it’s the hardest, most impossible thing that Shiro has _ever_ had to do.   
  
It’s especially unfair, really, because Shiro _does_ have an arm there. It’s metal now, cold and unfeeling, but it’s not as though he’s completely missing a limb and yet still feels the ghostly sensations of his severed natural arm. As much as he hates the Galra prosthetic, it’s an incredibly sophisticated piece of work, and moves just like a natural arm. The same thoughts and impulses Shiro used to use to move his original limb drive his new metal one, due to the numerous nerve connections wiring his own nervous system to the machinery. And it doesn’t move like a lifeless, robotic arm under remote control. With barely a thought he can exert just enough pressure to delicately pick up a fragile computer chip without breaking it, or enough force to snap a metal panel in half even _without_ activating its additional powers. In short, it's the closest thing he’ll ever have to a real, natural arm again, and moves enough like one that some days he can barely tell the difference.   
  
But as sophisticated as it is, what the prosthetic lacks is a sense of touch, the softness of skin, the rippling sensation of muscles contracting and releasing beneath flesh. The metal limb is more than adequately functional, but it can’t _feel_ , and it doesn’t feel like a real arm to his mind or his body in any sense of the word. When his right wrist itches, Shiro will scratch the metal wrist out of habit, but the natural fingers of his left hand don’t _feel_ the itchy skin of his right, and his brain never registers the fingers scratching away at the afflicted spot. It never goes away.   
  
And the phantom pains are the same, only worse. Shiro’s missing arm clenches and tightens and _strains_ , and no matter how many times he squeezes and unfolds his metal hand, he simply can’t get his brain to accept that it’s his _real_ right hand unclenching itself. There’s no sensation of muscles loosening, no lightening of pressure as his fingers stop digging into his palms, no crack of his knuckles as they stretch out; just the unnatural click of metal and the whir of the gears as they mechanically do whatever Shiro’s nerve impulses order. It’s not the _same_ , no matter how much he wills it to be, not even if he watches intently and tries to force himself imagining his real hand opening.   
  
It’s like a mockery, unfair and taunting. _You’re so close, and yet so far._ It’s not really his, and never _has_ felt like it’s really his. It’s a metal tool forced upon him that he uses to the advantage of the team, and it’s his in the sense that it’s grafted to his skin. But it does not and never has felt like it’s _belonged_ to him or been a part of him, not really.   
  
_Clench. Unclench._ Again.   
  
Nothing. His metal arm obeys, and his ghost limb sends silent, screaming signals of pain.   
  
Pidge frowns at his nod, and watches his metal fingers squeeze and unfold over and over. “How bad is it? How often does it happen?”  
  
Shiro shrugs uncomfortably, not really sure how to discuss his phantom pains with any of the paladins in a way that doesn’t sound awkward and self-pitying….and not really sure how to explain them to anyone who isn’t an amputee. They’re difficult to describe to someone who hasn’t experienced the sensation. So he says neutrally, “Some days are worse than others. It happens.”   
  
“And what’s today?” Pidge presses. “Better, or worse?”  
  
Shiro’s tempted to lie, but Pidge is watching him so carefully he doesn’t dare; he’s not sure he could get away with it, and he’s the one that’s been stressing truth and trust amongst the team. “Worse,” he admits grudgingly. Pidge waits expectantly, and he adds slowly, “It’s been building since this morning.”  
  
Pidge does not look happy with this answer, and her frown grows deeper. “That’s at least six or seven hours,” she says. “How come you’ve never said anything?”  
  
Shiro shrugs. “There isn’t anything I can do about it,” he says truthfully. “It isn’t something I can fix by jumping in a cryo-pod for an hour. There’s nothing to actually heal or fix. My brain doesn’t seem to recognize this arm as the missing one, so moving it doesn’t really help at all.” He lifts the metal arm, flexes it again out of habit even though he knows it won’t help unclench his straining right hand. “And there’s no point in complaining about it. People will just worry over something they can’t do anything about.”   
  
Pidge huffs at this, but asks a moment later, “Well, how do you usually deal with it?”  
  
“However I can. Sometimes distraction works for the minor things—itches, sensation of touch, general awareness. Training, spending time with the paladins, flying…it keeps my mind off it. Sometimes meditation or breathing exercises help.”   
  
“But not when it’s this bad,” Pidge states more than questions.   
  
“No,” Shiro admits. “Not when it’s this bad. It gets…hard to ignore after a while.”   
  
_Clench. Unclench._ Again. Nothing.  
  
Pidge sighs. “A prosthetic malfunction would have been easier to deal with.”  
  
Shiro manages to offer a weak smile. “Sorry, Pidge. I appreciate the offer to fix it…you just can’t fix something that’s not there to begin with. It’ll pass eventually. I’ll just deal with it until then.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have to deal with it at all,” Pidge counters.   
  
Shiro shrugs, as if to say, _what can you do?_ “What’s happened has happened. We’ll just move on as best we can.”  
  
Pidge looks thoughtful at the answer, but it seems enough to placate her, and she nods absently as she finally wanders out of the training room. Shiro’s a little relieved—discussing his arm is often an awkward affair, with all the things it represents. He crouches absently to deactivate the gladiator, which disappears in a flurry of data bits, and finally leaves the training deck for a well deserved shower.   
  
He doesn’t see Pidge again at dinner a few hours later, when the rest of the paladins reconvene for their (thankfully non-terrifying) level five victory dinner. He puzzles over her absence, but mostly Shiro is preoccupied with just making it through dinner without drawing further attention to himself or making it obvious that he’s hurting. In the past few hours since the training exercise the pain in his phantom limb has gotten significantly worse, and he can feel shooting pains lancing up his arm into his very _real_ shoulder from his straining non-existent tendons and too tight fingers. He keeps his prosthetic under the table in his lap to keep his unconscious clenching and unclenching from sight, and eats with his left hand. Fortunately, he’s coordinated enough with a fork and knife in his left hand by now that he can manage without making a fool of himself, although he doesn’t eat much. The constant non-existent pain is starting to give him a severe headache, and he’s rapidly losing his appetite.   
  
He barely makes it through dinner with a neutral face, and excuses himself early, citing fatigue. More discomfort than he likes must have gotten through on his face, since no one questions him, but at least he’s able to escape the rambunctious antics of his fellow paladins and their Altean friends. He does head for his room, for an attempt at meditation more than actual sleep, but finds Pidge at his door as he reaches it.  
  
“ _There_ you are,” she says. She’s wearing that single-minded determined expression she gets whenever she’s heavily focused on a new project, and grabs his left wrist, tugging him down the hallway towards her workshop. “Come with me, I have to show you something.”  
  
“Can we take a look tomorrow?” Shiro tries to deflect. He’s too tired, distracted, and in pain to listen to one of Pidge’s rambling lectures about upgrading the Lions or new discoveries on Galra technology at the moment.   
  
“Nope. This needs to be done now,” she insists. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks more softly, “Arm still hurting?”  
  
“Ah…yes.”  
  
“Worse than before?”  
  
“Yes,” Shiro admits.  
  
“Well, this might help. I hope. The theory is solid, but…well, we’ll see. I don’t want to feed you any preconceived opinions before we try it.”  
  
Shiro blinks at this, and is intrigued despite himself. Something to help with the phantom pain? Was this why Pidge had disappeared for hours? What could she possibly have been working on?  
  
Shiro finds out soon enough, as Pidge leads him gently into her workshop and gestures to one of the worktables. There’s a strange box with two holes just large enough for his hands sitting on the table’s surface. When he gets closer, he realizes the box is divided in two on the inside with what looks like a mirror.   
  
He stares at the contraption, then over at Pidge, who has circled around the table to the opposite side of the box. “Sit,” she orders, gesturing to the stool just in front of the box and the holes. “And put both your hands through the holes, one in each.”  
  
He does, bemused, and stares down at his hands in the box, one on each side of the split. From directly above it doesn’t look like much, but when he tilts his head slightly to the right, he feels a sudden jolt of panic. The reflection of his prosthetic in the mirror at exactly the right angle makes it look as though _both_ his hands are suddenly made out of metal, and he jerks his hands free in surprise.   
  
“Woah! Easy. Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Pidge says apologetically. “I couldn’t find a single-sided reflective surface. I might be able to later when I have more time, but I wanted this done tonight so I could try and help.”   
  
Shiro frowns in confusion and opens his mouth to ask exactly what she’s talking about, but Pidge nudges his head to the left before he can speak. “Look on this side. That’s it. Put your hands back in now and just let them rest there. Yeah. Just like that.”  
  
He does, perplexed and a little apprehensive, but this time the angle is on the left. The mirror reflects his natural left hand in the box this time, and his eyes widen in surprise as it creates the illusion that he has two perfectly normal biological hands. Logically he knows that it’s his cybernetic hand on the other side of that mirrored wall in the split box, but that’s not what his eyes see, and for a moment he can almost pretend that he never lost his right hand at all.  
  
Pidge is grinning a little, but when she instructs him her tone is serious. “Okay, so what’s your right hand doing? I’m gonna guess clenching based on what your cybernetic arm has been doing all day, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Shiro answers, still staring at optical illusion in the box.  
  
“Okay, so what we’re gonna do is, you’re gonna clench your left hand as hard as you can. Just like your right one. Okay?”  
  
Shiro does so, squeezing his left hand as hard as he can, just like he can feel on the right. His nails dig into his palms, for real this time, and he can feel his muscles tightening and his fingers crushing against each other. His illusionary right hand in the mirror does the same, reflecting exactly what he’s been feeling all day.  
  
“Great. Now open your hand again. Nice and slow.”  
  
He does, unfolding his fingers slowly, watching the fingers uncurl and the muscles go slack, and…  
  
 _And his right arm does the same,_ fingers slowly unfurling for the first time in nearly twelve hours.   
  
Shiro’s eyes open wide, and distantly he hears himself making some sort of unintelligible noise. He stretches out his left hand fully, and his right hand, the hand that doesn’t even _exist_ anymore, does the same, just like the reflection in the mirror. He clenches his left hand again, and with it the illusionary right hand, and with _that_ his phantom arm clenches again. He flexes his left hand, and the phantom right hand follows suit.   
  
“Pidge,” he says incredulously, eyes still wide in shock, as he finally looks away from the box to stare at the green paladin, “What is…how did… _how?_ ”  
  
“Wow, I’ve never heard you so at a loss for words before,” Pidge says with a smirk. “It’s working, right? You can move your right arm? Not the metal one, I mean _your_ arm.”   
  
“Yes,” Shiro says. It doesn’t seem to work if he’s not staring at the mirror image, and apparently he needs the visual feedback to get his brain to play along, so he looks back down into the box and flexes his left hand again. His right one, his _non-existent_ right one, mimics perfectly. “What _is_ this, Pidge?”  
  
“Ramachandran’s mirror box,” Pidge says promptly. “I actually wasn’t sure it’d work, mirror therapy only has maybe a forty percent response ratio. But it’s not like we have access to other forms of medication or therapy people use on Earth to treat amputees, so I figured it was worth a shot, right?”  
  
“Right,” Shiro says dazedly, as he carefully flexes his left hand through a series of basic muscle stretches. His right one follows suit, and he can feel his stiff muscles loosening and relaxing as he puts them through their paces. “But how does this even work?”  
  
“Well, the idea is that your brain is trying to send your hand impulses, but it’s not getting feedback on whether or not those impulses are actually working or not or if it’s too much,” Pidge says. “You actually are getting the impulses in the cybernetic arm, it looks like—I’m watching now, it’s also mimicking what you’re doing with the left hand—but however they wired it to your brain, it must be a little different than how an actual arm is wired up, y’know, naturally speaking. So your brain thinks it’s not getting through, and just keeps sending more and more orders to do something —like clench your hand—so your phantom limb just keeps clenching ‘cause it can’t return the feedback to knock it off already. And your Galra arm isn’t giving that feedback either, I guess, because it doesn’t really feel anything. But we can trick your brain into thinking it’s actually getting that feedback if it thinks it’s looking at your real right arm.”   
  
“I get it.” It’s such a simple solution for such a complex problem, but Shiro revels in the fact that he can actually relieve that stress, _finally_. The thick knot of pain in his arm and that constant awareness in the back of his mind is already fading. “You built this yourself?”  
  
“Yup, with stuff I could find around the ship on short notice,” Pidge says, sounding smug. “I can build you a better one later without the two way mirror. I didn’t mean to startle you with that, sorry.”  
  
“How did you even know about this?” He glances up at her again, brows raised, impressed.  
  
She shrugs. “Human brains are basically biological computers, you know? The way both work is fascinating. I gravitated more towards computers and technology because of my dad and my brother, but I wouldn’t have minded studying psychology either.” She grins. “And you can hack any kind of computer, biological or technological, if you just know how the process works.”   
  
“Pidge,” Shiro says—voice serious, even if he’s smiling—“thanks. Really. I mean it. You…you have no idea what kind of a relief this is.” Words can’t even begin to describe it. He’s never even considered that there would be any way to treat something that’s not even there, that doesn’t even exist, and he’d long since accepted that it was just one of the many things he would have to suffer in silence, but _this…_  
  
This doesn’t just relieve pain, it gives him _hope._ That some of the awful things Galra saddled him with in his year as a captive can, in fact, be soothed away or mended. That he doesn’t _have_ to just suffer quietly. That this hated _thing_ permanently attached to him doesn’t have to rule every aspect of his life.   
  
Pidge nods quietly. “It’s not a problem, Shiro,” she says seriously. “Really. You protected my family before, and you look out for all of us now, and…well, really. This is the least I can do.”   
  
Shiro smiles, and glances down in the box one last time. His phantom limb feels wonderfully relaxed and loose, now. He’s still _aware_ of it being there, but it no longer causes him pain or discomfort, and he can live with the awkward double-armed sensation. He removes both hands from the box, only slightly disappointed when the mirror image disappears and his cybernetic arm comes back into view. He wiggles the metal fingers absently, noting once again that there’s a disconnect between them and his ghostly right arm. He still can’t quite connect the two…but that’s alright, now. He’s got this new box to deal with it.  
  
“We can put this one in your room,” Pidge says, gesturing at the box. “So you can have one on hand if you need it. I can make more to store around other parts of the castle if you want, though. Maybe one in the Black Lion’s hangar, or the training deck?”   
  
“Those all sound great,” Shiro says, as he carefully picks up the mirror box. “As long as I can keep Lance or Hunk from playing with them, anyway…”  
  
Pidge snorts. “Good luck with that. Do you know how hard it was to keep Hunk out of my equipment? And Lance is…well, _Lance._ ”  
  
Shiro chuckles at that. “I’ll drop this one off in my room for now to save us the trouble. Get some dinner, Pidge. Hunk did manage to beat Coran to the kitchen, so it’s actually edible—get it while it lasts.”   
  
Pidge blinks, like she’s totally forgotten all about something as basic and unimportant as _eating_ , which she probably has like she always does when immersed in a new project. “Oh, right.”  
  
“And take it easy for the rest of the night, okay? You’ve definitely earned it.”   
  
“You got it,” Pidge says, offering a salute that was probably supposed to be sarcastic, but was snapped into place far too perfectly after hours of Garrison-regulation practice. “See you on the training deck tomorrow…and this time bring your A game, so we can all _actually_ beat that gladiator together.”   
  
Shiro nods, lips quirking slightly. “No distractions. I promise.”   
  
And with this new little device, he definitely means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the rare event I DO see a fic regarding the maintenance of Shiro’s prosthetic, Pidge is always the one doing the work. I wanted to shake it up a little and give her a different way to help. The box and mirror therapy are real things and the premise is actually pretty cool; you can google it or youtube it for more info. :)
> 
> Next up is Keith!


	4. Frost

The Black Lion spins and twists wildly through space, and the cabin flashes a bloody shade of red over and over in place of the much more familiar white-violet Shiro is used to. Alarms blare in his ears, and he can feel the Black Lion’s consciousness wavering alarmingly, struggling to reorient herself and assess damages. She’s _hurting_. Shiro can feel it in the depths of his own consciousness, and it’s terrifying. She’s never hurt _this_ badly before.   
  
Shiro can hear six voices screaming his name in the headset comms. It takes him a second to reorganize his own scrambled thoughts and try to understand what’s happening. “Wh…what?”  
  
His voice, weak and dazed though it is, is apparently enough to reassure the rest of them that he’s at least not dead or unconscious, because a moment later the others start yammering all at once over the comms.  
  
 _“Where did that other ship come from?”_  
  
 _“It’s gonna fire that ion cannon again!”_  
  
 _“Shiro, get out of there now!”_  
  
 _“Somebody cover him, take that ship out, now now now!”_  
  
 _“I’m on it!”_  
  
Shiro manages to reorient enough to figure out what happened while the Black Lion drifts, and through the staticky visuals he sees the _second_ Galra warship that had appeared out of nowhere. It’s ion cannon is sparking as it charges again, but the Blue and Yellow Lions are closest and already roaring towards it for damage control, and the Castle is already firing non-stop to bring down the cannon’s particle barrier.   
  
_That thing hit us,_ Shiro realizes, as his mind gains a little more clarity. The ship had blinked out of hyperspeed just in time to blindside the Black Lion and assist the other warship, just as they had been about to form Voltron. Black had realized bare seconds before the second ship had fired the ion cannon, but even with her raised particle barrier and the warning to start moving, they had taken a powerful glancing blow.   
  
A glancing blow that had completely destroyed the particle barrier and severely damaged the Black Lion’s systems. Shiro doesn’t want to even think of what would have happened if they’d taken a direct hit. Not even the Castle of Lions can withstand those for very long.   
  
But even so, he’s in trouble. Shiro tries to shift the controls enough to at least get out of the way, but the Black Lion doesn’t respond. The alarms are still blaring and the damage readouts popping up on holoscreens all around him are devastating. Most systems are nonfunctional. Propulsion is completely gone. Only one of her four legs is functional and that one can barely move as it is. Both red wing-plates are severely damaged. Visuals are decaying rapidly. Core systems are starting to overheat from trying to overcompensate for everything else. Power is being shut down and rerouted towards the self-repair process, in a frightening analogy to humans fainting. The Black Lion is fighting her own systems to keep life support from breaking down completely to protect her pilot, but Shiro can feel it’s taking all the effort she has.   
  
_“Shiro!”_ he hears Allura yelling over the comms. _“Get back to your hangar! Get out of there!”_   
  
“Can’t,” he rasps back. His voice feels hoarse. He’s not sure if it’s from yelling or from being dazed by the blast. “Only ten percent operational. Good…shot on that cannon. They knew…what they were doing.”  
  
 _“I can’t believe they interrupted us making Voltron!”_ Lance screams incredulously, as he and Hunk harry the newest warship. _“That’s against the rules! Haven’t they ever watched any show_ ever _?”_  
  
 _“Shiro, are you okay?”_ Pidge asks urgently.   
  
“Fine,” he answers. “Shaken is all. Not hurt.” That’s not entirely true—he’s extremely bruised up from the blast, and he knows he’ll be sore tomorrow. But as far as he can tell he’s not sporting broken bones or a head injury, so he’ll take what he can get. He’s doing better than Black is.   
  
As if she hears him, Shiro suddenly feels a weak mewl of apology from his Lion, seconds before the holoscreens and the viewing holograms snap to black. He curses under his breath even as he pats the dashboard reassuringly, trying to convey to his severely wounded partner that he’s not angry. “Just lost visuals,” he reports grimly over the comms, trying to sound as calm as possible.   
  
He’s acutely aware that he’s currently sitting in a pitch dark cabin that is approximately the size of his old prison cell, with no way to know what dangers are coming or if he’s going to die in the next minutes or hours or see anyone ever again or if he’s going to rot here for the rest of his life or—  
  
 _“Shiro, talk to us, breathe, something!”_  
  
 _“Somebody get him out of there—“_  
  
 _“—crap, they knocked him towards that planet, he’s gonna hit atmo in a minute—“_  
  
 _“—can’t reach him in time!”_  
  
 _“I’m on it. Red and I are the fastest, we’ll get him and haul him back—“_  
  
It takes Shiro far longer than he thinks it should for him to register the voices he’s hearing are the other paladins speaking over the comms, and he’s hearing them from his helmet. Once he does, though, he focuses on their voices with everything he has, trying to push back the darkness, the memories, focus on the now, his friends, his family. _Don’t slip into the dark again, don’t, you’re here with Black, she’s just a little hurt but you’re with friends, you’re not with Galra—_  
  
He digs his fingers into the control levers of the Black Lion to remind himself, as hard as he can.   
  
_“Shiro!”_   someone yells, and he registers Keith’s voice a second later. _“I’m here with Red, hold on, this is gonna be tricky—“_  
  
There’s a loud metallic _thud_ that sends Shiro’s heart racing as the entire cabin shudders alarmingly, and for a terrifying moment he wonders if he’s been hit again. But Keith’s speaking again a moment later, and he calms as he listens to the words. _“Sorry, that was probably rough. Black’s too big to grab with the jaw hatch, we have to dig in the claws, I’m sorry and I’ll help you guys fix it later—“_  
  
Shiro realizes he’s apologizing just as much to the Black Lion as he is its pilot. He also realizes Keith is deliberately explaining what he’s doing, even though it’s usually Hunk or Pidge that are the ones holding up a running commentary as they work. He feels a touch of fondness for the red paladin, who’s clearly trying to reassure however he can, even if it’s an awkward and unpracticed attempt to do so. “It’s fine, Keith,” he promises. “Do what you have to.”  
  
 _“Okay, we got this, hang on—“_ There’s a loud rumbling that suggests the Red Lion’s thrusters are firing, and Shiro lurches uncomfortably in his seat as the Black Lion starts to move, presumably being dragged.   
  
_“Keith! Head’s up look out—“_  
  
 _“Stop them, give them cover—“_  
  
 _“No no no!”_  
  
There’s a powerful impact that sends Shiro lurching out of his seat and over the dashboard, and seconds later he’s smashed into the side of the cabin as the Lion shudders alarmingly. He can’t see anything, and Black is barely aware, her own eyes powered down to route energy to her repair systems. Shiro has no idea what’s going on, but it _feels_ like they’re falling—  
  
 _“No!”_ Keith curses. _“Damn it, we’re in atmo! I can’t—the planet’s gravity—can’t hold—“_  
  
 _Of course he can’t,_ Shiro realizes. In zero gravity space the Red Lion could move the Black one easily, but as soon as they enter a planet’s atmosphere, the much smaller Red Lion has no chance of lifting the significantly heavier Black one solo.   
  
“Let go!” he orders. Black is already severely damaged, he can’t risk the Red Lion or Keith getting badly hurt too.   
  
_“Hell no!”_ Keith snaps back, angry. _“Can slow—visuals bad—white out—blizzard—“_  
  
Shiro winces at the static over the comms; he can barely hear Keith anymore, but conditions sound terrible. The Black Lion is shaking badly, and he throws himself into his seat again, bracing for the inevitable impact.   
  
_“Hang on—“_  
  
A screech of metal, a shattering crash. Silence.   
  
When Shiro comes to, he’s draped over the control panel again and freezing, and there’s a dull pain in his side where one of the control levers of the Black Lion is jammed uncomfortably into his ribcage. He levers himself up slowly with a groan, feeling sore and achy all over, and blinks his eyes open. This doesn’t help all that much, as it’s still quite dark in the cabin, but there is a single weak violet emergency light, flickering feebly overhead. His paladin armor provides some lighting too, the teal strips brightening enough to let him at least see a little of the cabin’s detail.   
  
He winces and sits for a moment in the pilot’s seat, just focusing on breathing, noting that he can see his breaths hovering in front of him in the chill air. After a moment he wearily leans forward to put his hands on the dashboard, noting that his right arm feels sluggish. But then, all of him feels sluggish, and moving is a chore. Time to get used to it for the foreseeable future.  
  
He presses his hands to the dash and closes his eyes, focusing on Black. She’s there, but barely coherent, the Voltron Lion equivalent of delirious and sick. She’s operating at barely five percent capacity now, and nearly everything is damaged. He’s scared for her, but picks up enough from her scattered thoughts to know she _can_ eventually recover. It’s just going to take her a long, long time. She’s sorry she can’t do a better job of protecting him right now, he thinks; she seems increasingly apologetic about the crashed life support systems, and the fact that she can’t regulate the temperature of the cabin right now. He breathes out again, and watches his breath create another frosty plume of air, even inside the cockpit.   
  
But she’ll be okay, eventually. He’s reassured by that, at least, and pats the dashboard gently in the same way he’d hold a wounded soldier’s hand in reassurance. “It’s okay,” he says out loud, tiredly, his voice still raspy. “You just focus on getting better.”   
  
The Lion’s consciousness surges weakly for a moment in his head, and then settles back down into its healing stupor, apparently spent just by communicating with him.  
  
Shiro leans back in his seat again, resting for a moment, trying to figure out what to do next. He’s stuck on a planet with a Lion that can’t move, but something in the back of his mind insists he’s not alone in this, that someone else had been with him when he crashed—  
  
 _Keith!_  
  
“Keith!” he calls over the comms, jerking upright. “Keith, can you hear me?”  
  
Static.  
  
“Keith! Allura! Coran! Anyone?”  
  
No response. Shiro grits his teeth in frustration, and then shoves himself to his feet, making his way through the cabin half by feel and half by the weak emergency light. Communications have obviously broken down, but they had been when they were falling into the planet’s atmosphere. He thought he’d heard Keith say something about a blizzard; maybe the bad weather had something to do with it. Whatever the case, he had to make sure Keith was okay too.   
  
He takes two minutes to locate the first aid pack Allura had given each of the paladins and sling it over his shoulders, wincing slightly when the pack jars his cybernetic arm at its connection point. It feels tender and sore and stings a little; he must have hit it hard or something when they crashed. It certainly would explain why the arm is responding more sluggishly than usual, even compared to his cold, also sluggish natural hand.   
  
Getting out of the Lion is trickier since Black isn’t responding to him anymore, but he manages to lever open the belly hatch with the enhanced strength of his cybernetic arm, wincing as he does so. At least the damn thing is useful _sometimes_. He shoves the hatch open and is met by a flurry of white as he steps into a full scale blizzard.   
  
Not good, he thinks. He’ll be lucky if he can find anyone in this. But staying with the Black Lion won’t do him any good either, and with his current string of luck they’d be buried and suffocate. The Black Lion could already be accurately renamed the White Lion with the snowdrifts that have already begun to pile up on her and the ice growing on her metal edges. Shiro’s only consolation is that the cold temperatures are probably helping her with the overheating problem from earlier.  
  
He activates the breathing apparatus on his helm as it closes fully, so the wind doesn’t tear his breath away at least, and uses its visual enhancement abilities to search the landscape. _There._ In a world of powdery white and black rock, the bright red metal of the Red Lion stands out like a gaping wound, even half covered in snow as it is. It’s only fifty feet away, but the snow is so dense it may as well be a mile.   
  
“I’ll be back,” Shiro says, placing his hand briefly on his Lion’s metal side. “I’m not leaving you, I just need to make sure everyone else is okay. We’re the leaders. You understand.” Then he grits his teeth and sets to work.  
  
It takes him almost an hour to get to the Red Lion, and he’s exhausted by the time he reaches the massive metal jaws. He’s freezing and shivers badly; the paladin suits do have some degree of protection against the cold, but it’s mostly intended for space, not for trekking through blizzard conditions. His arm and legs are like ice, and he keeps flexing his fingers and toes to keep feeling in them. His cybernetic arm feels nothing at all, at least, but it’s slow to respond to anything, and what’s left of his flesh there stings. He needs to get out of this, fast, and he needs to make sure Keith is okay.  
  
He bangs on the Red Lion’s jaw with his flesh hand; moving the prosthetic is more painful right now. “Red, it’s Shiro!” he orders. “Let me in, please! I need to make sure Keith is okay. Red! Listen!”  
  
The Red Lion is known for her temperament, and Shiro isn’t sure she will listen to him if he hasn’t proven himself to her. But after a long moment the Lion gives a low growling noise that sounds almost tired, and the small jaw-ramp unfolds in front of him with a metal whining noise. Shiro stumbles up it quickly, and the hatch snaps shut behind him, cutting off the blistering winds.  
  
The sudden silence and lack of buffeting winds and flurries of snow is a relief, and Shiro lets the mask part of his helm dissolve. He can still see his breath inside Red, and she’s clearly having trouble regulating internal temperature too, but it doesn’t seem quite as cold as it had been in Black’s cabin.   
  
The Red Lion’s cabin is completely sealed, but the door opens when Shiro palms the button, and immediately snaps shut again behind him, like it’s trying to keep the air in here contained. Shiro can understand why—although it’s clearly still _cold_ in here and certainly not comfortable, Shiro is relieved to notice his breath isn’t visible in here anymore, at least.   
  
His relief vanishes when he spots Keith, collapsed on his side near the pilot’s chair. He drops the first aid pack to the metal floor and lurches forward, stumbling on cold limbs as he crashes to his knees besides the teenager. “Keith! Keith, can you hear me?”  
  
Keith doesn’t respond at first, but when Shiro puts his left hand on the red paladin’s shoulder and gives him a gentle shake, the kid groans. It takes him a minute, but slowly his eyes flutter open, and he looks around blearily. “Sh…shiro?” 

Shiro sighs in relief. “I’m here. You okay? You hurt anywhere?”  
  
Keith winces as he slowly levers himself to a sit, leaning back against the dashboard. He eases his helm off, and Shiro can see a trickle of dried blood over one eye, but the cut looks superficial. “Head hurts,” he mutters after a moment. “Sore everywhere. Nothing broken, I don’t think.”   
  
Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. As crashes go, this one could have been far, far worse. “Better than nothing. Can you check on Red?”  
  
Keith’s eyes widen in alarm, and he manages to lever himself back into the pilot’s seat, wrapping his fingers around the controls and closing his eyes to concentrate. Visuals pop up a moment later, although it’s currently just a white screen, with Red’s eyes completely covered in snow.   
  
“Only fifty percent,” Keith mutters after a moment, frowning in frustration. “I tried to cut our speed when we were dropping, but we didn’t disengage in time. Claws got stuck and we sort of got…catapulted forward or something.” Popups start appearing on the holoscreens, indicating damages that the Red Lion’s systems are currently trying to fix, but it’s slow going.  
  
“Temperature isn’t helping either,” Keith says, opening his eyes and looking at Shiro. “Red’s built for volcanoes and deserts, not blizzards. The cold’s really sapping her strength. She’s rerouting a lot of power to keep our cabin temperature at least above freezing, but she’s drawing it all from her heat ray. I don’t know how long she can handle this kind of environment.”  
  
“Can we fly?” Shiro asks, looking over the error reports with a frown, as he flexes his natural arm and fingers, trying to work warmth back into them. The prosthetic he keeps as still as possible to avoid jarring the connection point any more than he has to. “Doesn’t have to be fancy, Keith, just enough to limp out of here.”  
  
Keith grits his teeth and shifts the controls carefully. The cabin lurches slightly as the Red Lion staggers uneasily to her feet, and shakes off the snow building up on her head, shoulders and back. Her movements are much slower than the Red Lion is capable of normally, but after a few moments they have visuals again…what passes for visuals, anyway. The blizzard is still going strong and it’s a virtual white out around them.   
  
Keith is a skilled pilot though, and knows how to fly on more than just visuals. He taps up additional sensors and eases the Red Lion into a crouch, before leaping into the air.   
  
Almost immediately they’re buffeted back down by the vicious winds and the angry flurries of snow. The Red Lion skids on the ice sheets below the surface and crashes onto her side, lurching Shiro and Keith sideways. Shiro barely manages to stifle a yell of pain as the shaking jars his cybernetic arm and his stump seems to burn, and he can’t prevent his grimace, but thankfully Keith is distracted and doesn’t notice.  
  
“Winds are too strong,” he gasps, wincing slightly. “Red could do it if she was at full power, but we don’t have the speed for it now, or the ability to maintain systems. She has to reroute too much power to compensate for the cold. Damn _snow_ …” He manages to ease the Red Lion off her side into a low crouch, imitating the ‘catloaf’ look almost comically, and digs her four sets of claws into the ice for stability, but even that is difficult. “We’re not getting out of here until the storm dies down.”   
  
“Or until we can get a rescue from the Blue Lion. It’s the only one built for cold temperatures and it’s large enough to resist the wind strength. It’s probably the only Lion that could navigate blizzards like this.”   
  
Keith gives Shiro an incredulous look. “So we’re stuck waiting for _Lance_ to pull a rescue mission? We have better odds getting help from a Galra warship.”  
  
Shiro gives him a stern look. “Keith, Lance isn’t _that_ unreliable. He’ll come through for us.”  
  
“I doubt it. Have you heard the stories Hunk and Pidge tell about the Kerberos rescue simulations? We’re doomed.” His expression shifts from irritated to concerned, and his voice grows more serious. “Besides… I…I’m not sure, I was trying to keep you from getting lost in atmo, but I think I saw the Blue Lion get hit pretty bad when Lance was trying to lay down cover fire for us. I’m not…so sure he’s actually able to come for a rescue at the moment.”  
  
Shiro hadn’t seen that with his damaged visuals, but it’s worrying news all the same. There’s nothing he can do for Lance at the moment though, and he can only hope Hunk, Pidge, Allura and Coran are able to provide assistance out in orbit. For now, the only thing he can do is focus on keeping himself and Keith alive until they can be rescued.   
  
“He’ll be fine,” Shiro says reassuringly, putting his left hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Let’s focus on staying warm for now. The Red Lion is at least protecting us from the wind, and it’s a lot warmer in this cabin than anywhere else. We’ll hunker down and try to wait out the storm.”   
  
So they do. Shiro’s first aid pack has a space blanket (which he knows because of the way Lance and Hunk joked about space blankets in space when Allura handed out the packs), and Keith has one as well in the Red Lion’s first aid supplies. They unfurl them both and settle down with their backs against the dashboard, which has just the faintest trace of warmth in it. Keith leans against Shiro’s left side, and they wrap up in both of the blankets as best as they can to wait it out.  
  
It’s quiet, and boring. Neither Shiro nor Keith are really conversationalists, and while both of them are normally perfectly content with silence, it feels more uncomfortable now when it makes the howling of the blizzard outside that much more prominent. Occasionally they try the comms, but static feedback is all they hear, to their intense frustration.   
  
Shiro is glad that at least _someone_ is here with him though, this time. If he’d been left all alone in the Black Lion’s cabin, he knows bad memories and invasive thoughts would start creeping up on him in the span of an hour. Here, with Keith a solid, warm presence next to him, he’s able to focus on the here and now, and that at least is somewhat reassuring.   
  
Not that the here and now is especially great, at the moment. Shiro is still freezing, even under both blankets, and his fingers and toes tingle with the cold as he flexes them to keep up the circulation. He can feel Keith doing the same next to him, rubbing his arms or folding his gloved fingers against his sides for additional warmth. Both have their helms back on to protect their head and ears, and both of them are shivering. Funnily enough, for once Shiro finds himself not complaining about his Galra arm as much as the rest of him. It’s still incredibly sluggish, certainly, but it’s not causing him pain or discomfort. Even the throbbing where the prosthetic connects has receded to a simpler prickling that he barely notices anymore.  
  
Occasionally, Keith will dislodge himself from under the blankets to sit in the pilot’s seat and connect to Red again. The moments leave Shiro’s side colder than usual as Keith shifts, and he finds himself waiting impatiently for Keith to finish his communication with the Red Lion so he can get back under the blankets and both of them can be warmer again. He can actually see Keith shivering harder as he places his hands on the controls and closes his eyes for focus. But these times are necessary for maintenance. Keith will usually help Red shake off the snow building up on her hull so they aren’t completely buried and suffocated, and he takes the time to check on her healing progress too. It’s very slow, too slow for comfort, too slow for them to expect to be getting off the planet under their own willpower any time soon, but at least she _is_ repairing.  
  
Shiro hopes the Black Lion is able to put herself together too, in this weather. He thinks of his poor abandoned Lion fifty feet away that they can’t even see anymore—she’s just a mound of white snow now when Keith shifts their visuals to look—and mentally reiterates his promise that he _will_ get back to her.   
  
“W-wish the cold wasn’t s-sapping her st-trength so much,” Keith chatters, after the fourth check. “If sh-she didn’t have to reroute p-power systems for us and t-to repair, we could f-fire up the heat ray. M-might warm the place up a little.”   
  
He burrows back under the blankets as he finishes his check, pressing against Shiro’s left side again as he tries to regain some warmth. Shiro winces slightly at the cold, and then hisses in surprise a moment later.  
  
“What? Something wrong?” Keith asks, jerking his head up towards the visual screens, as though expecting to see the Galra warships hovering over them.  
  
“No. I’m just an idiot,” Shiro says in frustration, working his cybernetic arm out from beneath the blankets. It’s frustratingly, impossibly slow, but he manages to pull it out in front of them, flexing the fingers carefully. “I can light up. Might generate some heat.”   
  
Keith eyes it warily. Shiro doesn’t blame him—he’s never really used the arm for anything other than wrecking Galra opponents or turning on Galra computers, so he supposes it has a reputation for being destructive over preserving anything. “Will that work? Does it even create heat?”  
  
“It can weld steel doors shut,” Shiro says firmly. “I’m guessing that falls on the spectrum somewhere. Just don’t touch it.”  
  
Keith nods seriously, and Shiro closes his eyes to concentrate on powering the arm up. He’s had enough practice by now that it normally responds quickly, without the pain or unusual twitching it used to generate at the beginning. But his fingers don’t burn bright violet-white and there’s no thrum and pulse of energy, even when he concentrates for a full minute, trying to compensate for its sluggish response time since the crash. He opens his eyes and stares at his fingers with a feeling of betrayal.   
  
Of course it hadn’t worked. It was Galra tech. He shouldn’t come to rely on it so much, he berates himself. It’s always going to betray him in the end. Especially if it comes down to protecting the others. The Galra have never seen any use for protecting those weaker than themselves and saw little point in preservation. They’d probably laugh if they knew Shiro was trying to use their weapon of destruction to keep his fellow paladin from freezing to death.  
  
It galls him, that he can’t protect those under his command in their moments of need. He’s supposed to be strong enough for _all_ of them.   
  
“Shiro?” Keith asks with a frown. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s not activating.” Shiro tries to keep his expression neutral and unworried.   
  
But Keith has known him longer than any of the other paladins, enough to see past it. He seems to know there’s more that Shiro’s not sharing, and prompts him to continue with a concerned look. “And?”  
  
He sighs. “It’s been pretty sluggish since the crash,” he admits. “It’s not moving well and gets a bit stiff. I’m not sure if it hit something on the way down. Or maybe something’s stuck in the gears again.”  
  
Keith frowns. “I can take a look. I’m no engineer, but if something’s jamming it up maybe I can help get it out.”   
  
Shiro is uneasy about letting him handle the prosthetic. By his own admission Keith is _not_ an engineer, and might not see the warning signs if the thing was delayed in powering up, or did something else that might hurt him. He shouldn’t be burdening Keith with a problem the red paladin isn’t equipped to handle, either. It would just worry him without giving him a chance to take action on it, and Keith hates feeling helpless.  
  
But Keith is already freeing himself from the blankets, keeping one wrapped over his shoulders, as he shifts to the other side to have better access to Shiro’s prosthetic arm. Shiro sighs, because he knows Keith can be just as stubborn about this sort of thing as Pidge when he gets in the right mindset. And maybe he _can_ do something. If it’s just something stuck in the gearworks and Keith can get it out, he can activate the hand and they can be at least somewhat warm as they wait for a rescue.  
  
So he lets Keith take his prosthetic forearm carefully in both hands. Keith works the black wristguard and glove off carefully, and shifts to place the metal palm in his right hand for easier access. But he jerks back in surprise almost immediately and curses, shaking his right hand like he’s been burned.  
  
“What? Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was active—“ Shiro hisses in alarm, trying to pull his arm back. It’s sluggish and barely responsive. Now that the glove and wristguard are off the gears can be heard, but the whirs and clicks are muted and tired sounding, and it isn’t glowing.  
  
“No, no, it’s okay, I’m not burned,” Keith says hastily, keeping a firm grip on Shiro’s armored forearm with both hands now. “It’s just…shit, Shiro, your arm is ice cold, no wonder it’s not responding.” A moment later Keith groans in frustration, squeezing his eyes closed. “Of course. It’s _metal_. We should’ve thought of this earlier. Of course it’s not retaining any body heat…and metal conducts the cold.” His eyes snap open wide a moment later. “Crap…how’s the actual arm? Can you feel anything?”  
  
Shiro blinks in surprise as Keith becomes steadily more agitated. The red paladin places the metal hand on the ground carefully and shifts both gloved hands to Shiro’s upper arm, where the metal of the prosthetic meets the flesh of his shoulder. This is normally a big taboo, as Shiro has never been comfortable with anyone messing with the connection point, but Keith looks so concerned that it throws Shiro off enough to let it pass.   
  
A moment later, he’s just as alarmed as Keith. The point where flesh meets metal has always been sensitive to him, but now he barely feels anything. Keith is pressing on the paladin armor with enough pressure that he should be gasping in pain, or feeling at least the touch on his skin. But other than a faraway prickling sensation he feels nothing. It’s like he’s taken a shot of novocaine right at the connection point.   
  
“You don’t feel that at all?” Keith asks, worried. When Shiro shakes his head, he grits his teeth. “Damn. I should’ve figured…you’re probably getting the first stages of frostbite.”  
  
Shiro frowns. “It’s not cold enough for that in here,” he says. “No wind chill factor, it’s above freezing, and we’ve got our exposed skin covered. You’re not showing any frostbite symptoms at all…”  
  
But Keith shakes his head insistently, even as he gets up and drags one of the first aid packs over. “I don’t have an arm made out of _metal_ , Shiro. _And_ I haven’t been outside in this weather.” He jerks a thumb at the flurries of snow in the Red Lion’s visuals. “You came here from the Black Lion out in below-zero temperatures and you’ve got freezing-cold metal permanently attached to your body. That thing’s _got_ to be leeching your core body temperature, and any flesh making contact is going to start getting frostbite from proximity _real_ fast.”  
  
He makes a reasonable argument, actually, although Shiro had never considered it before. He’s never dealt with temperatures quite _this_ cold since getting the prosthetic. In fact, Kerberos was probably the last time he ever encountered an environment that was primarily ice and sub-zero temperatures, and that felt like a lifetime ago.   
  
Keith is digging through the first aid supplies now, frowning as he picks through the packs. “I wish we just had some warm water…” He mutters, as he pulls out a bottle of strange gelatinous orbs that are the Altean equivalent of ibuprofen. “Take a couple of these,” he says, tapping a few out into his palm and holding them out for Shiro to accept.  
  
Shiro frowns. “I can’t even feel it right now. I don’t need painkillers.”  
  
“No, but it’ll help with inflammation in the skin,” Keith insists, and glares at Shiro until he holds out his left hand for the orbs. Shiro swallows them dry—thankfully it’s easier to pull off with the gel-orbs than Earth pills—while Keith returns to his right side and starts easing off the arm guards. Shiro helps as best he can with his left hand, until the white paladin armor has been removed and only the black undersuit sleeve is left. Keith cuts it back _very_ carefully with his bayard until the end of the prosthetic is exposed, and winces in sympathy when the metal and scars are revealed. “I really did not want to be right about this one.”  
  
Shiro grimaces at the sight of it as well. His skin is much paler around area where metal meets flesh, an ugly gray-white, and looks too stiff to be natural. Keith prods it carefully, and Shiro can’t feel the paladin’s gloves on his skin at all.   
  
“We don’t have any warm water to treat this with,” Keith says in frustration. Then he sighs, cups his hands, and leans forward, carefully breathing out on the exposed skin. The warm breath actually feels good—and more importantly, Shiro _can_ actually sort of feel it. Keith does what he can to expose the skin to at least a little warmth, and cups his gloved hands around the very top of the prosthetic to try and force the metal to warm a little too. When Keith declares it as good as it’s going to get in their current condition, the red paladin finally takes the blanket draped around his shoulders and wraps the arm in it completely, securing the stump of Shiro’s arm and shoulder as warmly as he can.  
  
“Keith, don’t,” Shiro says in frustration. “You need that to stay warm too—here, take this one—“ He tugs at the blanket still over most of his body, other than his exposed right arm.  
  
“No way,” Keith says firmly. “You’re keeping that one too. We need to keep that arm warm, and we need to keep _you_ warm as well. Or did you miss the part where I said it’s probably leeching your core temperature? We don’t need you getting hypothermia on top of this, too.”   
  
“It’s really not that bad,” Shiro insists. “And we can’t let you get hypothermia, either.”  
  
“Again—I’m not the one with the metal arm,” Keith says. “It’s uncomfortable in here, but my suit is regulating a lot of it. I’ll be fine until we get a rescue. Seriously, Shiro, don’t fight me on this—I will _absolutely_ take being uncomfortable over you losing even _more_ of your arm than you already have because of this thing.”  
  
For a moment Shiro freezes, and he can feel things crawling forward from the back of his head— _cold, like the cold metal tables, strapped down, fingers twitch but don’t respond, bright lights in his eyes, white and purple and there’s spots that come with pain as they carve away at his upper arm and—_  
  
“Shiro?” 

He starts, and shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. _It wouldn’t be like that even if I did lose more_ , he thinks, as he lets out a shuddering breath. _Allura and Coran wouldn’t be like that. But still, I…I don’t…I can’t do that again, I…_  
  
“Okay,” Shiro rasps softly. “Okay, fine.”  
  
Keith doesn’t actually seem satisfied with this answer, and he’s watching Shiro warily. After a moment he flops down next to Shiro, this time on his right. “We’ll compromise,” he offers instead, reaching over to tug the blanket over both of them. Keith is warm against his right side compared to the chill from before. And after a moment, the red paladin takes the blanket-wrapped cybernetic arm and maneuvers it to rest on his folded up knees, so he can reach the connection point easier to warm it under his arm.   
  
“Can you move your fingers at all?” he asks.  
  
Shiro is grateful for the question that gives him something to focus on. He concentrates and is able to twitch his metal fingers where they’re hanging over Keith’s knee, but they’re still sluggish and don’t respond as fast as they should. “Still slow,” he says.  
  
Keith frowns. “Hunk or Pidge would know better, but I’d bet the frostbite is interfering with the nerves somehow.”  
  
Shiro wouldn’t be surprised. The Galra hadn’t given him the damn thing as a kindness, and apparently hadn’t bothered to integrate it with his body as well as they probably should have.   
  
But that thought leads in a dark direction again, so he asks quickly to distract himself, “Where did you learn so much about cold weather first aid?” From what he remembers, Keith has always lived in warmer climates, and when Shiro had crash landed back on Earth he’d been living in a shack in the desert for months…not the sort of place a person got frostbite.   
  
Keith turns his head slowly to give Shiro a _look._ Shiro recognizes it after a confused moment as the exact same look Keith tends to give Lance after the latter has said or done something monumentally stupid or out of line. It feels strange to be on the receiving end of it. Keith stares with the _look_ , and after a moment says with the accompanying _did you really just say that_ tone, “Shiro. Galaxy Garrison was training us for rescue missions to Kerberos. You know. The moon _covered in ice._ ”  
  
“I’m aware,” Shiro says mildly. “I was there.”   
  
“They’re not going to send a rescue party that can’t even deal with basic cold weather conditions. Everyone had to learn the basics of first aid and cold climate survival, regardless of what technical specification you were on,” Keith says. “Lance, Pidge and Hunk probably all had the same lessons after I got booted from the Garrison.”  
  
Shiro had actually had the same training before heading to Kerberos. He’d just never thought about applying it to alien cybernetic prosthetics that he hadn’t ever known existed at the time. And he was so used to unusual pains and difficulties with his Galra prosthetic he probably never would have noticed the dangers until it was too late.   
  
“Thanks,” he says after a moment. As frustrating as it is to have yet another weakness due to this arm, and to have to be bailed out yet _again_ , it’s at least comforting to know that Keith, too, is watching his back.  
  
Keith merely shrugs. “We’re not all clear yet. Thank me when we’re back on the ship. Or if you really want to thank me, figure out something to talk about so we can keep you awake.”  
  
Keith’s tone is neutral, but Shiro understands the implications. He’s not just talking about hypothermia symptoms; he must have noticed Shiro’s… _discomfort_ …with the situation and the memories hiding in the back of his head. _Figure out something to talk about so you stay in the here and now, he seems to be saying_ , without actually saying it.  
  
Shiro’s more than a little grateful for the excuse Keith offers him. “Tell me about that hoverbike you had back on Earth,” is the first thing that comes to mind. Keith’s eyes light up slightly at the question, and he immediately warms up to the topic. He settles more comfortably against Shiro’s side as he talks about specs and handling and the way it had done surprisingly well carting five people around during his rescue.  
  
It takes the better part of four hours before the blizzard begins to subside. Other than the occasional break Keith takes to have the Red Lion dislodge snow, they remain huddled under the blanket together, with Keith taking it upon himself to try and keep Shiro’s cybernetic arm and the attached skin as warm as possible in less than warm conditions. It doesn’t work as well as Keith clearly hopes it would, and towards the end, Shiro really _is_ starting to feel hazy and unfocused, and his shivering intensifies. He can’t move his cybernetic arm at all anymore; it bends when Keith maneuvers it, but it’s like he can’t get the signals from his brain to the limb. He’s aware of Keith muttering that he feels like he’s gotten colder, and can hear the worry in his voice.   
  
But then the comms crackle with static, and Allura calls for them. Shiro has never been so grateful to hear her voice, and Keith shouts back urgently, giving her their coordinates and insisting that they hurry, Shiro needs medical attention. He tries to insist he’s just fine, but his voice slurs a little when he speaks, which is not like him at all. Well, damn it. Maybe he _does_ need help.  
  
Things move rapidly after that. The Castle of Lions appears in the Red Lion’s visuals, touching down next to them, and Shiro can hear Coran’s voice telling them to move quick—according to their sensors, they only have a single hour of lull in the storm before it’ll be back at full strength. Keith shifts back into the pilot seat to help the Red Lion limp into her hangar, where the warmer temperatures and Altean energy almost immediately increase her repair speed.   
  
With his Lion taken care of, Keith helps Shiro to his feet, supporting him with Shiro’s natural arm over his shoulder, and helps him walk to the hatch. He coaxes Shiro towards the infirmary, but Shiro blinks and digs in his heels for a moment at the thought that he’s forgetting something.  
  
“Black,” he realizes. “Can’t leave her—“  
  
“Easy,” Keith assures. “Pidge and Hunk are digging her out of the snow right now. They’ll have her in the hangar and we’ll start helping fix her up right away. I promised I’d help too, remember?”  
  
“Right,” Shiro says with a frown. He did remember, now. It’s so hard to remember things right now. He’s so tired and cold, and he can’t feel anything in his right arm even though it’s warm, which he knows is bad…  
  
Keith gets him to the infirmary, and Shiro spots Lance sealed in a cryo-pod as they pass, eyes closed and deeply asleep. There’s some nasty bruising and a deep gash on his head, but it already looks days old rather than hours. It does explain why the Blue Lion never came for a rescue, though, and Keith gives Shiro a pointed look as if to say, _I told you so_. Coran is there and assures them both Lance will be just fine, even as he comes over and helps Keith get Shiro sitting on a table. Coran unwraps the blanket-bound cybernetic arm and exposes the damaged tissue while Keith stands on his left side, hand on Shiro’s shoulder to help him stay upright.   
  
“I did what I could to treat it,” Keith says, looking worriedly  at the scarred skin, which is a darker color now. “Will it be okay?”  
  
Coran fusses with a few instruments and scans the tissue carefully, but finally nods after a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he says confidently, as he places a few warmed towels around the metal and adjacent flesh. “You did an excellent job catching it before it spread too deeply. I don’t think there’s any deep-tissue damage and nothing’s started decaying, so the limb isn’t at risk…it’s just superficial damage. Putting him in a cryo-pod would be a bit counterproductive, but I think we have some treatments that should rejuvenate the skin once it’s rewarmed. He’ll be fine in a day or two.”   
  
Keith sighs in relief.

After ten minutes or so in the warmth of the Castle, and Coran’s advanced Altean treatments, Shiro’s starting to feel a little more aware again. Keith doesn’t leave his side, still looking concerned, and Shiro manages to raise his left hand to muss the paladin’s hair, smiling a little. “We’re on the ship, so I’m allowed to thank you now, I think. Good job, Keith. You really held it together.”   
  
Keith blinks at him, and then offers a hesitant smile, like he has trouble remembering what exactly he’s supposed to do with praise. “No problem. You’d do the same for any of us.”  
  
“Maybe so, but I’m glad you were there to back me up anyway. I might not have noticed otherwise, and…” _And I might have lost even more of this arm than I already have, if I didn’t die of hypothermia first,_ he thinks internally with a shudder.  
  
“It’s fine. Really. Though, if you want to pay me back…” Keith says slowly, considering.  
  
Shiro frowns. “This is _not_ counting towards your bizarre rescue-Shiro count you have against Lance,” he says flatly.   
  
Keith scowls at him a little, and says, “ _Actually,_ I was going to say you should talk to Hunk and Pidge about that.” He gestures at the metal edge of the prosthetic, and the adjacent flesh that Coran is now treating with warm wet rags. “See if they can’t do something to help with that in the future. You know that’s not the last time we’re going to be up against extreme temperatures. It’s probably not a good idea to have a metal arm in the middle of a desert or a volcano, and we know for sure it’s bad to have in a blizzard.”   
  
“Fair point,” Shiro concedes, as Hunk and Pidge flock into the room, looking both worried and relieved. “I’ll ask them about it.”   
  
But for now, he’s content with the knowledge that everyone is okay (or getting there, in Lance’s case) and that he can sort of move his metal fingers again. And most importantly, he’s content with the knowledge that his paladins are a lot more competent than he ever gave them credit for at looking out for each other when they need to…even in the most unusual of circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a personal head-canon of mine that Shiro wouldn’t be able to use a cryo-pod without damaging his right arm at least a little…because the process is based on cryogenic freezing and his arm is made of metal. Extreme temperatures are also probably not fun when you have a metal limb. 
> 
> Next chapter will feature Allura and Coran together :)


	5. Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More medical stuff ahead! Kind of, anyway?

The lounge of the Castle of Lions is blissfully empty as Shiro wearily sets himself down on one of the couches at the far end. It isn’t that he’s avoiding the rest of the team, he tells himself insistently, as he places his metal prosthetic carefully on one of the armrests. He just needs a chance to rest, just for a moment, and preferably without worried onlookers…or accusing stares.  
  
He winces, both at the well deserved glares he envisions from the crew in his head, as well as the stab of pain that rips through the stump of his arm. The latter distracts him from the former, and he eases his Galra limb more carefully onto the armrest, enough that the couch is now taking its weight and the pressure is taken off what’s left of his right arm. It helps…barely. The limb throbs painfully again, and he grits his teeth, biting back a groan. It isn’t until he hears a soft tearing noise that he realizes his prosthetic is digging into the armrest so hard it’s shredding fabric, an automatic response to his pain that he hasn’t even realized he’s doing.   
  
He breathes out harshly through his nose and closes his eyes, focusing. After a moment, the creak of metal and whir of gears tells him his fingers have removed themselves from the armrest. He focuses on breathing again, in, out, in, out, and he’s able to ignore the throbbing in his arm a little better.   
  
Distantly, he realizes he’s quite visible here in the lounge. He should probably go back to his room, where no one can see him, and where no one will worry over him, or question why he’s tearing up the upholstery, or…anything else. But moving with the prosthetic right now is extremely painful. Even if the cursed thing compensates somewhat for its own weight, the strain on his arm and shoulder is particularly agonizing on a day like today. Being able to rest it on another surface and take some of the pressure off his right arm is a needed relief, and now that he’s sitting he can’t bring himself to get up, not just yet.  
  
 _Five minutes,_ he promises himself. _Five minutes and I’ll head back to my room. That should be enough time to catch my breath._   
  
So he keeps focusing on his breathing—in, hold it, out, wait. Repeat. The pain doesn’t recede, exactly, but it does become a little easier to deal with when he’s focusing his mind on something else. It’s a trick he learned when studying combat on Earth, and one he used to the extremes during his year as a Galra captive.   
  
After a few minutes he finds himself setting back a little more into the couch, letting his shoulders rest against the cushions and tipping his head back to settle on a stray pillow. He can’t call it comfortable exactly, not with the ever-present throbbing of his upper arm, but it’s better than straining to keep an upright posture right now. He feels tense and sore everywhere, but especially in his shoulders, chest and core, and especially on his right side. Resting for just a minute is…nice.   
  
But perfectly still, he has no movement, no action to distract him, and it means he begins _thinking_ instead. This time, though, it’s not a dark memory dredged up from his imprisonment that worms its way to the surface of his mind. It’s far more recent, from only a few hours ago, towards the end of their most recent mission as paladins of Voltron.   
  
_They’ve found another Balmera…one blessedly free of Galra occupation, in a sector of the galaxy currently unclaimed by the empire. But it’s distressingly close to the Galra planetary borders, and with the scouting ships they’ve seen recently, an invasion is imminent. Especially with the way Galra greedily eats up resources throughout the universe. And especially when the target is a (comparatively) younger, healthier Balmera with hundreds of power crystals ready for the taking, and its inhabitants peaceful and unaware of the dangers in the skies._  
  
 _But the Voltron paladins have no intention of letting this Balmera be so severely abused as the last one they visited. They touch down on the Balmera’s surface and venture into the caves to warn its people, and to teach them how to protect themselves against the Galra. Initial contact goes well, and the paladins are welcomed by the curious but ultimately friendly people below the surface, while Allura and Coran remain topside in the ship to monitor for Galra activity._  
  
 _It’s only Allura’s warning that saves them, before the Galra fighters swoop out of the skies to begin terrorizing the Balmera and its people. As long as the beast lives long enough to give all the crystals it can produce, the Galra care little about its health. This Balmera is not tired, worn, and dying like the last, however, and it shrieks indignantly all around them as the fighters burn its surface and smash several of the natural, cavern-like arteries that reach down to the creature’s core. It’s enraged, but it can’t reach the fighters in the air. And while the paladins know the creature can certainly be deadly if the Galra ever land on its surface, the Galra in turn are smart enough not to._  
  
 _So the creature rages around them, and nearly kills the paladins in a furious attempt to eradicate any foreign_ thing _in or on its petrified body, nearly crushing Hunk and Keith in its fury. The Balmerans press their palms to the cavern-flesh and work as one to calm the creature, to promise that the paladins are their friends, their allies, and will protect it if it lets them. It calms—barely—but even Shiro, who doesn’t have the Balmeran’s or even the Altean’s skills at interacting with the creature, can tell it is watching them resentfully._  
  
 _All they can do is what they promised to do—protect the Balmera, and its people, from the invaders. Shiro gives the order to return to their Lions and return fire—carefully, so as not to harm the Balmera—but this is easier said and done. This Balmera is unscathed by Galra cruelty, and its caverns are not choked full of steel and electronics and direct pathways carved into its stoneflesh. And while the deep cavern shafts that provided their shelter for the Lions on the first Balmera exist on this one, too, they’re inaccessible to anything larger than a pod or a fighter due to the intricate honeycomb of rocklike bridges criss-crossing all throughout the open space. Pidge had equated them to brain cells; Shiro had seen them more like spider webs. The end result was the same, however—a Lion certainly wouldn’t fit through them, not without damaging the Balmera host severely. So the Lions were topside, and the paladins far below the surface._  
  
 _A few of the Balmerans offer to show them shortcuts to reach the surface as fast as possible, and guide them to one of the deep shafts with the brain cell-web-bridges. The Balmerans will use them like freeways to get to various levels and sides of the Balmera, and messages pass quicker here, they say. Maybe Pidge’s brain cell analogy is the more correct one, and maybe the lack of them on the last Balmera was why it struggled so much to assist them. Whatever the case, their guide brings them to a set of stone cell-bridges that are close enough to the surface that they could climb or fly their way free quickly—as long as they aren’t shot down by the fighters swarming overhead._  
  
 _Pidge reaches the open space first, and leaps into the air, activating her jetpack to shoot her way towards the surface. At the same time, a narrow Galra craft blasts low over the tunnels and drops a spherical metal item down at them, which fires off a wave of_ something _sparking angrily in a radius all around it. Instantly, the steady communications in Shiro’s ear from the Castle of Lions cut out, dead and silent. The bright teal indicator lights on each paladin’s armor flicker out, going dull._  
  
 _And Pidge’s jets sputter and die instantly, and she starts to drop into the deep cavern below._  
  
 _“Pidge!” Lance—the closest to her on one of the bridges—yelps in alarm. He dives forward as she drops past him, and manages to just barely catch the collar of her armor with one hand. But her momentum is too much for his already off-balance body, and he topples over the side with her._  
  
 _Keith’s arm flashes out of nowhere to snatch Lance’s, and the two manage to lock wrists even as Lance shrieks in alarm. Keith makes a valiant effort to dig in his heels and pull back, but the weight of not one but two paladins dropping unchecked is more than he can handle, and he, too, skids forward and over the side._  
  
 _Hunk is last, and makes an awkward fumble for Keith, who flings his free arm back in a desperate effort to grab at the cell-stone bridge. Hunk manages to grip Keith’s fingers, but Keith lurches alarmingly as Lance and Pidge swing awkwardly beneath him. Hunk nearly loses his grip, and when he leans forward wildly to correct it he overbalances and joins the others over the side._  
  
 _All that Shiro can hear is their terrified screeches as they start to fall, still interlocked in a human chain. All he can think is,_ I am _not_ losing my crew again, no matter what _. And almost before he can register what he is doing, he’s launched himself forward, and his Galra arm strikes out faster than he thought possible, and snatches Hunk’s wrist just before it’s out of reach._  
  
 _The four of them lurch to a halt again, swinging wildly, and Shiro_ feels _the weight of them pulling at him, feels the strain of it in his shoulder and in the connection point where flesh meets metal. It feels like the tugging weight of his four team members will rip the prosthetic clean out, like they’re ramming knives into the metal plating and scarred flesh to cut it off, like something is sinking its teeth into his arm to chew it free. It’s_ agony _, and he only barely manages to suppress a scream of pain because he’s gritting his teeth with the effort of holding them all up. But by some miracle it holds, and they stop falling._  
  
 _He hears a cry of pain, and for a moment he thinks he’s lost control after all. But a second later he realizes it’s Hunk, and a second after that he feels the grinding sensation through vibration more than physical touch as his metal fingers crush the bone they’re wrapped around. The Galra prosthetic could be a subtle tool when needed, but in his haste he’d traded subtlety for strength and speed, and failed to control the end result._  
  
 _Guilt washes over him, mixed in with the stabbing agony in his shoulder and stump, and the strain in his legs and chest as he digs in and braces himself to keep from going over the edge with the rest of the team._ Focus _, he tells himself sharply. Guilt later. Save them_ now.   
  
_The team isn’t flying, so_ all _of their jetpacks must have been disabled by whatever kind of weapon that Galra ship had dropped on them. The fighters are still swooping above, firing the occasional errant laser beam, but Shiro can hear occasional return fire from above. Allura must have realized the paladin communications had been cut somehow and was providing support where she could. So he focuses on the paladins first._  
  
 _While the rest of his body his suffering under the strain, the Galra arm is doing shockingly well. There’s no frightening clicking or grinding noises, and he doesn’t lose his grip on Hunk, although he does at least manage to not mangle the yellow paladin’s wrist further. Gritting his teeth in determination, Shiro starts to pull the team forward up the bridge, letting the arm do as much of the work as possible._  
  
 _It works—agonizingly slowly, and with the pressure and pain in what’s left of his arm increasing every moment he continues to force it to lift the weight of his entire team, but it works. He manages to drag Hunk forward enough for the yellow paladin to half crawl up onto the bridge, where he immediately turns to help with dragging Keith up. Shiro releases Hunk’s crushed wrist to grab Keith’s, which Hunk relinquishes, and with the weight of one less person it goes a little easier this time. Keith works with him, twisting his weight as soon as he has even the slightest decent footing to pull Lance in closer, and Shiro snags the blue paladin’s collar with both hands, hauling him up over the cell-stone. Pidge is last, reaching up with both hands for assistance, and after the other three Shiro finds her incredibly easy to lift. Lance doesn’t let go of her collar until she’s on solid footing. All four look shaky but okay, although Hunk cradles his injured wrist close to his chest and whimpers softly whenever it’s jarred._  
  
 _“I’m sorry, Hunk,” Shiro rasps, voice hoarse—maybe he hadn’t been able to keep himself from yelling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that—“_  
  
 _“It’s fine,” Hunk assures—which is somewhat ruined by the way he immediately winces in pain. “It’s fine, it’s…we’d be dead if you hadn’t, Shiro, really, I get it.”_  
  
 _Shiro doesn’t believe it for a second._  
  
 _But they don’t have time for discussion, and the Balmera screams around them again, enraged, as the fighters continue shooting into its surface. The paladins rush across the latticework of cell-bridges and manage to reach the surface, albeit slower than they would have with the packs. The Lions are blessedly unharmed by the strange EMP-like disrupter pulse—which, Shiro realizes belatedly, did_ not _interrupt his Galra arm in any way._  
  
 _He doesn’t have time to think of the implications of that._  
  
 _They win, in the end—the invasion force is small by Galra standards, where they clearly haven’t expected resistance from the peaceful Balmerans. It’s easy to beat back, even without Voltron, because Hunk isn’t able to pilot the Yellow Lion with his mangled wrist. The day is saved, the Balmerans are grateful, and even the Balmera itself is thankful, enough to gift them several powerful crystals. Allura leaves a communicator for these new Balmerans to contact them if they come under attack again, and yet another group joins the Voltron Alliance._   
  
Shiro grimaces, both in pain and at the recollection. By all accounts today had been a victory, even with the unsettling discovery of some sort of disrupter pulse the Galra had. Even Hunk would be fine after a short stay in one of the cryo-pods.   
  
But it doesn’t sit right with Shiro in the end. He’d screwed up. He’d lacked control, lacked focus, and it had injured one of his teammates. He knew where that arm came from and at least some of what it was capable of—he had to remember that, and couldn’t afford to get careless with it like he had today. What if they’d needed Voltron, and Hunk wasn’t able to pilot the Yellow Lion? What if he’d broken Hunk’s arm instead, or injured one of the others while he’d pulled them up? What if he’d lost so much focus that it had activated while he was too busy being distracted by his own pain and fear to notice?   
  
His arm throbs again, cold, insistent, hurting. In a way, a part of Shiro almost feels like he deserves it—like it’s a reminder to _not_ do what he just did again. It’s a suitable punishment for injuring one of his own team members, especially when he was supposed to be the one protecting them.   
  
But another part of him just wants it to stop aching. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could just take the damn thing off for a while, just like a human-designed prosthetic back home. Human amputees on Earth required routine maintenance for both the prosthetic _and_ the remainder of the missing limb—both by cleaning and treating the point of injury as well as the prosthetic itself, and resizing the fit according to the way the limb could swell or atrophy. Hunk provided excellent prosthetic maintenance now (Shiro winces again at how poorly he’s repaid that kindness today), but the stump of his right arm unfortunately doesn’t have the same option. With the Galra arm permanently grafted to his body, there’s little he can do to care for what’s left of his right limb.   
  
And the Galra had hardly cared about designing a tool that integrated properly with its host when they could create an incredible weapon at its expense. As a combat tool, the prosthetic is an incredible piece of work—it grants Shiro an enormous amount of strength, enough to go to toe to toe with literal heavy hitters like Sendak, and it can be subtle enough to let him handle weaponry or machinery that will benefit him in battle. But it is not a tool designed for comfort, or for assisting its amputee host. At best it can be irritating and chafing on his skin and muscle, and a dull ache on his nerves. And at the worst it’s like _now_ , throbbing and stabbing like knives, and making him want more than anything to dig his nails in at the metal seams and tear it off just to be free of it.   
  
And he knows it can be worse. He knows it because of the things slithering around in the back of his head…flashes, bits and pieces, of when his right arm first disappeared and when this metal _thing_ took its place, when it ached and throbbed and the skin around the metal was red and inflamed and oozed when touched, when he’d been so hot, too hot, couldn’t keep down even his tiny ration of water even though he knew he needed it badly, when he could barely see or stand and his right side was so _heavy_ and it _ached_ and he could barely see his opponent across the arena from the sweat in his eyes, could barely grip the sword in his left hand—  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
Shiro’s eyes snap open in alarm as he chokes back a soft whine, and he raises his head from the back of the couch. Allura and Coran are both standing in the doorway. Allura is back in her elegant dress, which means she’s confident the danger is long past. That would be reassuring, if not for the fact that they’re both staring at him with a mix of concern and confusion. He feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, and realizes with a shock he’s been sitting on the couch for the better part of an hour. He’d only intended to rest for a few minutes to avoid exactly the looks he’s getting now.  
  
“Shiro?” Allura repeats. “Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Shiro responds…perhaps a bit too curtly. His aching arm makes it harder to focus, and it takes most of his concentration to speak.   
  
Allura and Coran exchange glances. After a moment, Coran says with a knowing tone, “Altean ears are far superior to your primitive human ones, you know. In addition to being much better looking—“ (Allura smirks in clear agreement) “—we’ve also got a much higher range of sound we can hear compared to the rest of you.”  
  
Shiro’s lips press together at the clear implication that they’d heard the muted noises he tends to make during the moments he… _remembers_ things.   
  
“What Coran means to say,” Allura says, giving her advisor a look before turning back to Shiro, “Is that you seem…distressed. Is something wrong?”  
  
“Nothing at all, princess,” he assures. She gives him a clearly disbelieving look, and he decides to offer a modicum of truth to distract from the greater lie. “Just a bit tired, after that battle. That’s all. I’ll be perfectly fine after a little chance to rest.”   
  
The remainder of his arm throbs in disagreement. Shiro knows better than to think he’ll be getting any sleep tonight, not with that going on. The pain will die down eventually, but all he can do until then is ride it out.   
  
“Don’t let me keep you,” he adds, when neither Altean moves from their place in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it was you were doing.”  
  
“Oh, no interruption at all!” Coran says brightly, absently twiddling with his mustache. “After all, I was looking for you.”   
  
“I just checked the ship’s coordinates,” Allura adds. “I’ve nothing pressing to attend to at the moment.”   
  
Shiro inwardly grimaces. If that’s the case, they won’t be so easily distracted, or so quick to leave him alone. He sighs, and figures he might as well get started on damage control. “What did you need me for, Coran?”  
  
“First,” Coran says, “To deliver some news, and a message. Hunk is all settled in a cryo-pod, and his wrist is already on the mend. It wasn’t as bad as it looked—he’ll be out in an hour or two. No other major injuries to speak of.”   
  
Shiro looks away, staring at a convenient point on the floor as a wave of guilt rushes over him again. “Ah. That’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”  
  
“I thought you might say that,” Coran says, in a tone that he sees past the neutral words to the guilt behind them, “which is where the message comes in. Hunk was _very_ insistent that I made it _absolutely_ clear that none of what happened today was your fault. In fact, I had quite a time getting him to agree to go in the cryo-pod _first_ , before he hunted you down to tell you himself.”  
  
Shiro blinks in surprise, and glances back over at the two Alteans. Allura looks serious, but Coran is smiling a little, and he twiddles his mustache again.   
  
“Yes,” Coran continues, like he’s commenting on the time of day, “all of the other paladins were actually _quite_ insistent on explaining to me just how, what was the word…’awesome’ it was that you managed to catch all of them and pull them back up. They gave me a full blow-by-blow retelling of the whole event as I patched them up. I must say, it does sound like quite an impressive feat.”  
  
“It wasn’t enough,” Shiro argues firmly, and he’s unable to disguise some of his frustration and guilt in his voice. “I seriously hurt Hunk. I could have done worse.”  
  
“You saved their lives,” Allura counters, just as firmly. “You followed the paladin code honorably, protecting your teammates in their moments of vulnerability. If you had not acted as you had, all four of them—including Hunk—would almost certainly be dead.”  
  
“I didn’t protect them the right way,” Shiro says. “It worked this time, but it could have been worse. Because of me, we couldn’t form Voltron if we’d needed to. We lost the support of one of the Lions. I should have found a better solution.”  
  
“Then get better in the future,” Allura says. “Train. Plan ahead. Learn your limitations, and those of your fellow paladins, and learn to work around them. But do _not_ punish yourself for protecting the others, especially when they hold nothing against you themselves.”  
  
Her tone is firm, that of a princess expecting to be obeyed, but her eyes and her smile are kind as she speaks. Shiro finds himself relaxing slightly as he lets the words sink in. Allura isn’t wrong, really, and she has a way of mixing compassion with practicality that makes her an excellent leader. She acknowledges his failures without trying to erase them, and offers encouragement on how to improve, and somehow that’s more calming than everyone insisting he did nothing wrong at all. He doesn’t feel completely guilt-free, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s being excused from his own actions without deserving it, either.  
  
“I’ll do that,” he promises. “Get better.”  
  
She smiles knowingly, and nods like she completely trusts him to do so.   
  
“Now that _that’s_ out of the way,” Coran says, voice deliberately chipper, “shall we move on to the other reason I came looking for you?”   
  
Shiro frowns at him, and Coran removes a small handheld scanning device from his pocket that Shiro recognizes from the infirmary. “Didn’t have a chance to look you over after the battle,” the Altean says. “Hunk was first priority, of course, but after you dropped him off when the battle was over you scurried out of the infirmary like a yelmor after a farzgrip.”   
  
Shiro has absolutely no idea what that even means, but figures it’s the rough equivalent of ‘ran away really really fast,’ because that’s certainly what he’d done.   
  
“Now that the others are taken care of, I thought I’d nip up here to see if you were injured at all in the battle. Anything to report?”  
  
“No,” Shiro says, even as his right shoulder and what’s left of his arm throb painfully. “No injuries. Just tired.”  
  
Coran gives him a stern look, and Shiro feels uncomfortably like he’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “None of that, now,” the adviser says. “The others were also quick to point out to me that you were favoring your right side for the remainder of the battle. They were concerned,” he adds, at Shiro’s mildly frustrated look. “But they weren’t sure if you were injured when they fell, or if you were hit by something afterwards, or shaken up during the firefight. So, care to explain what happened? It’s clearly not life-threatening if you’ve been up here for the past hour, but an hour or so in the cryo-pods ought to clean that right up.”  
  
Shiro shudders slightly at the thought of being locked in one of the pods, even for an hour, even to heal. The thought of losing all awareness, or control, or leaving himself so vulnerable, is…not a pleasant one. “That’s really not necessary,” he insists.   
  
“Besides,” he adds, with a spark of inspiration, “I’m not sure this thing will handle the pods well.” He nods slightly at his Galra arm. “I’ll take a pod if it’s life or death, but this isn’t that, and the cold on the metal…”   
  
Coran frowns a little at that. “Yes, I suppose that’s a valid point,” he concedes, though grudgingly. “Don’t want to injure you when trying to heal you. Pidge and Hunk still working on a solution for that?”  
  
“Yes, but it’s trickier than they initially figured,” Shiro says, grateful for the shift in topic. “They’re trying to find a way to neutralize or re-disperse the temperature changes somehow, but the metal this thing is made of is—“  
  
“It’s your arm that’s causing you trouble, isn’t it?” Allura interrupts with a frown.  
  
Shiro hesitates, but Allura is staring at his metal hand. He realizes belatedly that his fingers are digging into the armrest again, quietly shredding the fabric even further. It’s an unconscious reaction to the biting feeling at his upper arm that’s still plaguing him throughout the entire conversation.  
  
They’re both watching him carefully now, and Shiro knows he won’t get away with any further deflection. “Yes,” he finally admits with a sigh.   
  
“It’s from lifting everyone, isn’t it?” Allura presses further, as Coran frowns and flips on the medical scanner.   
  
Shiro presses his lips together again, but after a moment he nods. “That’s when it started.” _This time, anyway,_ he thinks but is careful not to add.  
  
Coran steps forward and starts waving the medical scanner at him, studying the screens intently, while pressing for more information. “Is it just the arm? Anything else causing you trouble?”  
  
Shiro sighs, already tired of the entire conversation, but dutifully answers under the watchful eyes of both Alteans. “The point where the prosthetic attaches is the worst,” he admits, “but I guess I’m feeling pretty sore on most of my right side, and through the shoulders. We didn’t take too much of a beating this time around, but…” He shrugs out of habit, and instantly regrets it, wincing slightly.  
  
Coran fiddles with his mustache as he studies the readouts intensely. After a moment he shakes his head, looking both impressed and frustrated. “The soreness is no surprise, even if you didn’t get battered about today,” he says, tapping the device and producing a holographic screen in midair. “Your human physiology is…well, I suppose it’s impressive in its own way. Your musculature has learned how to adapt for the prosthetic constantly, to compensate for the strain of using it, especially in high-stress situations like today. That’s why you’re feeling it so strongly in your side and shoulders. Your Galra arm might have done most of the lifting work, but it was the rest of your muscles that had to compensate for the strain of suddenly supporting four people on top of the adaptations it’s already made, and that feat put quite a lot of stress on them.”   
  
“Oh.” Shiro blinks. He’s never really thought about the way he carries his shoulders or his center of gravity, or how it’s probably changed since he gained a solid metal arm, but he supposes it happened somewhere along the line. His body would have had to learn to adjust to the foreign object that was now a part of it, or die trying…especially in the middle of a Galra fighting arena.   
  
“Your right shoulder and arm is a little more complicated, though,” Coran continues, tapping up other holo-screen to show Shiro the results of the scans. One appears to be some sort of thermal scan, and the other…Shiro’s not sure what it is, exactly, but the way his own stump is slightly brighter than the rest of him in the scanned image probably isn’t a good sign.   
  
“There’s quite a bit of swelling,” Coran says, tapping the second image right over the red spot. “That’s what this indicates, you see? It’s probably due to the severe strain you put on it today, what with catching and lifting four other paladins in free-fall. I’m no expert on human physiology, either, but I’m guessing the prolonged use of this prosthetic isn’t helping any. It doesn’t _look_ like it adjusts to compensate for changes in the limb it’s attached to—“ here he frowns a little disdainfully at the connection point, clearly not approving of Galra technology, “—which means when the limb is under additional stress, or starts swelling, this thing doesn’t bother to compensate for it. That puts even _more_ stress on you, and the cycle continues, see?  
  
“And here—“ Coran taps the first image, the one that looks like a thermal readout, and Shiro notes his shoulder is a little duller than the rest of him, this time, “—the temperature is slightly cooler here, see? It may even feel that way physically.”  
  
“I…guess,” Shiro says slowly, frowning. It feels like that often, actually, now that he thinks about it. “I always assumed it was just the arm itself causing that. You know, since it’s metal.”   
  
Coran shakes his head, while Allura steps forward curiously for a better look at the readouts. “That could have a little to do with it, but I’m willing to guess it’s mostly because your circulation is poor in what’s left of your right arm. I did some field medic training after I enlisted, and I’d occasionally see something like this in Altean amputees who couldn’t be gotten to a cryo-pod immediately after getting their injuries. And your human biology seems similar enough that I’d bet humans have the same problem. Circulation in lost limbs can weaken because muscles that used to help with massaging blood flow through the limb can’t work as well or are just gone. But you still need that blood flow to keep that limb healthy, and you’re not getting enough of it. It might cause more pain than usual, or just weaken the limb further…which means it can be stressed more by _this_ thing in the future.” He points at the metal arm.  
  
Shiro glances down at the cybernetic limb, from the fingers that he’s barely keeping from tearing into the upholstery again, to the point where metal meets flesh. What Coran is pointing out makes a great deal of sense, when he thinks about it. And he’s always known that the damn thing was never made to assist him when he lost a limb; the Galra would never care for their own like that, much less their slaves and prisoners. Weakness was something to be culled out and cut off, not compensated for. So why would they bother to make a prosthetic that took into account physical limits like circulation or swelling? The strong would suffer through it and turn the pain to their advantage, and the weak would die, thereby proving they never deserved the weapon they were given.   
  
Allura and Coran are watching him curiously when he looks up from the limb. Shiro glances at both of them, then sighs. “You’re probably not wrong,” he admits, “but I’m not sure how much good knowing any of that does. I can’t take it off. My real arm is going to keep being stressed by it, no matter what. And I’m not going to just take it easy and use it as little as possible—the rest of the team _needs_ me out there, which means there’s going to be days when I have to push it to the limits and just deal with the consequences after.” He lifts his left hand in a _what can you do_ gesture in place of shrugging.   
  
Allura and Coran exchange glances again, and Coran idly pokes at the holo-screens, causing them to vanish. “I wouldn’t say there’s nothing we can do,” the adviser says, sounding cheerful.   
  
“I already said I’m not going in a pod…not unless it’s absolutely critical.”  
  
“Not the pod,” Coran says, shaking his head. He twirls his mustache again thoughtfully. “On Altea we had a few varieties of treatments we would use. We don’t have the equipment for some, and I’m not sure the medications would work well with human physiology, even if we had them. But I think massage therapy could help.”  
  
Shiro stares at him. “Massage therapy?”  
  
“Certainly! If done right, it can be used to reduce tension and swelling in your arm, and help get circulation moving again. And it’s something we can do right here and now to help. Want to try it?”  
  
Shiro feels uneasy at the thought. It’s not that he dislikes physical contact; after all, the rest of the paladins regularly hide behind him, climb on him, touch his shoulders, grab his arms in excitement or support, or sit close enough to touch, and Hunk in particular is very free with his enthusiastic bear hugs. He’s used to contact, but less comfortable with the idea of anyone handling the remains of his right arm, especially when it’s particularly sensitive and painful at the moment. And he’s especially uncomfortable with Coran’s little _if done right_ , and painfully aware that while they look very similar to humans, the Altean physiology is still significantly different from theirs. They could make something worse without realizing it.   
  
His unease must show on his face, because Allura speaks up. “What if Coran monitors on the med-scanner during the procedure, and I do the actual work?” she offers. “We’ll be able to track if this massage therapy is working at all and stop immediately if it does not seem to be helping. Or if you aren’t comfortable with it, you can tell us, and we’ll try to find some other alternative.”  
  
A particularly nasty stab of pain through his right arm causes him to grit his teeth and double forward slightly in pain. He hears a cracking noise as his metal fingers dig into the upholstery so hard they snap the support structure within. “Sorry,” he rasps, when the sensation of something ripping into his arm all over again subsides.   
  
“Perfectly replaceable, I assure you,” Coran says, with the air of someone commenting on the weather.   
  
“But this is not something you should have to put up with,” Allura adds, frowning. “May we…?”  
  
“Alright,” Shiro hisses after a moment, as another throb at his arm increases again. “May as…well try it.”  
  
They both nod and move forward, with Coran raising the medical scanner again and fiddling with a few settings. They circle around behind him at first, but Shiro tenses, uneasy with them being at his back when he’s vulnerable. They must catch it, because both shift into his line of vision again, with Allura saying, “I think this is the best angle. Coran?”  
  
“Quite right,” he agrees. “Give me just a moment…”  
  
He fiddles with the medical scanner more, which gives Shiro a moment to try and relax again. He’s grateful to both of them for giving him a convenient excuse, and on a deeper level, for being absolutely nothing like the Galra and actually caring about their patient’s comfort.   
  
_They’re going to help,_ he tells himself firmly. _They wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. Just try it once._   
  
“Alright,” Coran says, after a few minutes, “I think we’d best start here, and try to work on that swelling first. Princess, very lightly to start, movements in this direction…”  
  
Allura glances at the screens once as Coran points out some sort of detail Shiro can’t see, and then nods, reaching carefully for Shiro’s right arm, just at the base where metal meets flesh. The skin there is especially sensitive and painful, and Shiro isn’t able to keep himself from wincing as her fingers touch the grafting scars and send a renewed spark of pain throughout his arm.   
  
But Allura’s touch is gentle. And since Shiro is fully aware she’s strong enough to tear his arm off at the socket and throw it across the room without any difficulty, Galra prosthetic and all, that truly shows how careful she’s being. She uses only the lightest of pressure on his skin as she follows Coran’s murmured instructions. But her fingers are small and nimble, allowing her to manipulate the flesh and muscle around the Galra prosthetic’s edges without tearing it or causing further damage.   
  
Even so, at first it hurts. Worse, the feeling of someone manipulating his severed arm in a way that causes him pain is deeply unsettling, even if he _knows_ logically it’s all to help. Allura seems to understand, because after a few moments she asks, “Is everything alright, Shiro?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Shiro insists. If they think this will help in the long run, he’s determined to at least give it a shot. Anything to prevent that stabbing pain that’s still racing up his arm and causing his metal fingers to twitch on the edge of the mangled couch. Even if it’s not the most comfortable experience.  
  
Allura seems to understand. She continues, still working her fingers carefully over the damaged, scarred flesh and following Coran’s instructions. But she also starts to talk to Shiro, telling him about some sort of berry festival they used to have on Altea every year. She describes the berry fields and the flowers and the foods they would make out of them; those last in particular sounded significantly better than the food goo and whatever terrifying concoction Coran made them for the day.   
  
Her voice is cultured and rhythmic, and sounds calm and relaxed, nothing at all like the cold and uncaring voices he sometimes hears at the back of his mind. He finds himself not minding the throbbing pain the massage causes as much as before. And, after several minutes of careful work, that pain actually diminishes. His limb doesn’t feel like there’s quite as much pressure on it as before, and it doesn’t feel quite as stiff.   
  
“Excellent start,” Coran says, staring intently at the screens. “A little more pressure now, princess, and we’ll see if we can’t reduce some of that buildup. Like so…”   
  
Coran gestures at Shiro’s upper arm and shoulder, and Allura increases the pressure, manipulating the muscle more deeply now. Once again, for a moment it’s uncomfortable, but then the muscles seem to loosen as Allura carefully following Coran’s instructions. It’s always the same motions, massaging away from his prosthetic, and Shiro vaguely realizes they’re trying to draw some of the pressure away from the point the metal meets his flesh.   
  
He lets them work, and finds himself relaxing slightly, tension slipping out of his shoulders. This wasn’t…nearly as bad as he had been expecting. The skin and muscle they’re manipulating is still very sensitive and sometimes the sensation is still uncomfortable, and his arm still throbs or spikes with pain, but the longer they work the less strong those sensations become.   
  
He starts when he feels a scrabbling touch along his right side, and jerks his head down in surprise. He stares a moment later when he spots all four of Allura’s mice, balancing on the couch pillows, the armrest, and his lap, methodically kneading the sore muscle and skin of his right side through his vest. Bewildered, he looks up at Allura, who smiles a little apologetically.   
  
“They wanted to help. Is that alright?”  
  
“Ah…sure,” Shiro says with a blink. The mice tend to ignore him as a general rule. If they aren’t with Allura, they’re usually hanging around Pidge, or trying to steal Lance’s meals. Still, their little paws are excellent at reaching all the strained muscles on his side and back that had been used to compensate for the Galra arm, and after getting over the bizarre sensation of receiving a massage from four mice, he lets them get on with it.  
  
Coran and Allura work methodically, Coran monitoring readouts carefully on his scanner and Allura following instructions based on the feedback they receive, while the mice work on his sore muscles. Allura continues speaking as she works, now talking about a major Altean holiday and the celebrations her people would have, interspersed occasionally with Coran’s instructions.   
  
The pain in Shiro’s arm starts to gradually recede as the tension is worked out of his damaged limb, and the voices are becoming comfortable and more distant, like a soothing sort of white noise. He feels strangely relaxed, and rests his head against the couch’s back again, settling it deeper into one of the pillows. His eyelids droop until they’re only half open, and he feels like he’s sort of dozing. Everything feels distant, but not in the uncomfortable, frightening way it does when he can feel himself slipping into the darkness of the Galra ship and his memories as a prisoner. He feels _safe,_ and relaxed, like he’s in a trance, completely calm. He is aware of Allura gradually moving to his right shoulder, or the mice scurrying up his side over to his left shoulder to knead in place, but nothing about it bothers him and he’s content to let them work.   
  
It feels like an age has passed when the hands are removed from his shoulder, and the mice scurry down to perch on his knees. Shiro feels like he’s melted into the couch at some point, and is surprised at how much tension is gone that he never even knew he was carrying in the first place. He blinks blearily back into the present, to find Allura and Coran leaning over him curiously.  

“My readouts are much more positive,” Coran says cheerfully, as soon as he catches Shiro’s eyes on him, “but what’s the final verdict?”  
  
“Ah…good,” Shiro admits, with a soft smile. “Really…really good, actually. It’s the best my right arm has felt in…a really, _really_ long time.” He hadn’t even realized it was _possible_ to treat his severed arm like this, much less considered that constant irritation to outright pain being soothed away.   
  
Coran beams, and Allura looks distinctly pleased. “If that’s the case,” Coran says brightly, “We should probably continue this sort of therapy on a regular basis. There was quite a lot of damage to try and deal with this time, probably because it’s never been cared for before, but if we can keep this up regularly we might be able to prevent that kind of problem from growing in the future.”  
  
“I think it might be easier to help, now that we’ve begun some kind of treatment,” Allura agrees.   
  
“It seems like it was successful,” Coran says with a nod. “It can only continue to be. And it’s our only real option, since we can’t take the blasted prosthetic off; the way it’s grafted, it would do more harm than good.” Again, he looks disgusted with the Galra technology, and shakes his head in disapproval. “Altean prosthetics were just as advanced, but we designed them to either be removable or to adjust for the amputee’s limb accordingly, so it wouldn’t put such undue stress on the host.”   
  
“It’s the same on Earth,” Shiro mutters absently, still feeling oddly relaxed, like he’s half floating. He hadn’t even realized how much tension and stress his body had been under, maintaining his metal limb, until Coran and Allura had systematically soothed it away. “Removable prosthetics, anyway.”   
  
“Something in those human synapses of yours are firing right, at least!” Coran says. “Better than the Galra, anyway. Well, we can’t remove it, but we can help you maintain it better. At least once a week, and after every major battle that puts too much stress on your shoulder, I should think, if that sounds all right with you?”   
“I would be happy to assist,” Allura adds with a smile, “and I am certain the other paladins would be willing to learn the techniques as well.” There’s an indignant group of squeaks from Shiro’s knees, and Allura translates with a fond smile, “The mice also volunteer their services.”   
  
“I…yeah. That might be a good idea,” Shiro says, lifting his metal arm carefully for the first time since he sat down, well over…two hours ago now, _wow_. The prosthetic moves easily, and Shiro doesn’t feel the same painful strain on his right arm and side as before—the same sensation that he’s stunned to realize he’s gradually just gotten used to. He flexes the fingers absently, and wonders if maybe this will help with the first problem too. Maybe if he’s not constantly battling the buildup of stress on what remains of his right arm, he can better control the prosthetic, and keep it from harming his team in the future.   
  
“Excellent! Then we’ll reconvene in a week,” Coran says, snapping his bushy mustache again. “In the meantime, I believe Hunk is due to leave the cryo-pods any time now. I think he’d be quite happy to see you there waiting for him.”  
  
“Yeah. Good idea.” Shiro gives the mice time to scurry onto the couch cushions before standing. But before he leaves, he turns to face the Alteans. “Thanks, both of you. You too,” he adds, when the mice squeak indignantly again.   
  
“Don’t you fret about it,” Coran says, standing up straighter. “Supporting the paladins of Voltron and the princess of Altea is my job. I’m not about to let a single one of you suffer unnecessarily if it can be avoided.” And Shiro can see in the way he stands and speaks that he means every word of it. Goofy as he is, Shiro knows Coran takes his job extremely seriously, and cares about all of them in the same way an occasionally kooky but ultimately good hearted uncle might.   
  
Allura smiles as she holds out her hand on the couch for the mice to climb. “We’re happy to help. All of us. I…feel badly, sometimes,” she admits, “about conscripting all of you into a war I know you certainly didn’t ask for. It is necessary for us to fight, and I know you all volunteered to stay and shoulder this mission, but I know it must be difficult. If I can do something to ease that, I will.”   
  
And Shiro can see she, too, means everything she says. Allura can be a harsh taskmaster, stubborn, and determined to fight. But she also deeply cares about her paladins, even if Shiro knows they wouldn’t have been her first pick if she’d had the paladins of old to choose from. Shiro doesn’t really consider her _his_ princess—he’s not Altean and her rank doesn’t mean much to him or the other humans in the long run—but he does consider her a good leader, and a good friend.   
  
“I appreciate it all the same,” Shiro says. They nod, and he turns to leave the room and head for the infirmary, surprised to find that he’s not intimidated by the thought before—that in fact he feels the most content he has in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human amputees require a lot of maintenance and care on both their limbs and their prosthetics, but I have a feeling the Galra responsible for giving Shiro his arm wouldn’t particularly care about that sort of thing. I suspect it’s functional as a weapon but probably not medically sound or approved. 
> 
> Sadly only 1 more chapter to go. It might take me a little longer to get it up…but it’ll be worth the wait, since it’s 15K of Shiro looking out for his team. Because I can’t ever do anything halfway. Until then, enjoy!


	6. Protector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be the chapter tags warned about. There’s blood and a few pretty bad injuries; some parts might not be for the squeamish. Plenty of hurt/comfort…heavy on the ‘hurt.’
> 
> And now without further ado...your promised 15K finale of Shiro being awesome.

“Shiro? Shiro…oh please don’t be dead, Shiro, please, c’mon, please…”  
  
Shiro’s awareness comes to him gradually. He hears the pleading voice first, catches his own name repeated with an edge of terror and desperation, and comes to the realization that something is terribly, terribly wrong. His mind still wavers, unsure, confused. But he forces himself to focus, and manages to wrench himself out of that dazed place in between unconsciousness and wakefulness with sheer force of will alone.   
  
It takes him a second, but he registers that the voice is Hunk’s. It sounds strained and hoarse, like Hunk has been yelling for so long that he’s lost his voice. It also sounds further away than Shiro initially realized. The yellow paladin is talking to him—begging him to not be dead—but it doesn’t sound like he’s right there next to him.   
  
Shiro manages to register next that there’s a heavy weight on top of him, pinning him down. For a moment his brain panics, conjuring memories of cold metal tables and heavy straps holding him in place, and his breath comes faster as he feels the first edges of terror creeping into the back of his mind. But he realizes a moment later that this doesn’t feel like _that._ It’s not that he’s been forcibly strapped down; there’s something heavy pinning him in place, but it doesn’t feel like it’s with any degree of intent. The pressure on his body is too random for that.  
  
He wrenches his eyes open. His vision isn’t filled with bright spotlights and masked faces. Instead, he sees sheared metal walls, crushed computer consoles, and broken ship structure. To his far left he can see a massive hole ripped in the nearest crumpled metal wall, letting warm yellow sunlight pour through into the otherwise gloomy interior of…of wherever he is.   
  
There’s more of the debris piled on top of him, pinning him awkwardly to the metal floor at his back on most of his left side. He wiggles his fingers and toes on his left arm and leg, and is relieved to find that while stuck, he can feel them and they respond to his command. That’s good, at least. He’s already lost one limb, he’s not exactly thrilled at the prospect of losing another.   
  
_What happened?_ He asks himself.   
  
It’s hard to remember at first, but gradually it comes back to him. The team had been infiltrating a Galra warship, he remembers. Pidge had managed to hack Galra communications and get word that this ship was transporting an extremely important weapon to Zarkon himself—something reportedly strong enough to disable Voltron from the inside. They’d managed to locate the ship and sneak aboard, using the Green Lion’s cloaking ability to get them all in close undetected. They’d made it to the bridge easily, disabling or avoiding sentries as they went, only to find it completely unmanned.   
  
Something about that had sent a spike of alarm through Shiro—even if Galra warships were ninety percent operated and maintained by sentries, there were always at least a few flesh and blood Galra officers on board to take direct orders from higher ups and authorize decisions. The fact that there weren’t any here at all was a red flag. And when the ship had locked down minutes later and prepared for hyperspeed, they knew the trap for what it was.   
  
With the help of Shiro’s arm, Pidge had hacked the ship, enough to discover it was headed straight for the center of Zarkon’s empire. The trap had been a perfect way to gift-wrap all five Voltron paladins for Zarkon and deliver them straight to their opponent. Pidge had managed to randomize the destination coordinates just as the warship jumped into hyperspeed, but with the lockdown in effect—and Shiro’s arm tagged as an escaped prisoner—she hadn’t been able to do more than that, or even determine where they were actually heading. The ship had burst out of hyperspeed aimed directly at a planet, and with all systems locked and Pidge unable to break the codes fast enough, they’d taken a nose dive straight into the planet’s surface.  
  
 _We’re still in the Galra crash,_ Shiro realizes.  
  
He wonders what happened to Allura and Coran, or the Green Lion. If it had been a trap, there were probably Galra fighters waiting on the nearby moons. He hopes they were able to get away, and to recover the Lion after the warship it had been attached to went into hyperspeed. But he has no idea if Allura can find where they went without the Lions to track, and isn’t sure if they’ll be able to get a rescue anytime soon.  
  
“Shiro, please, _please_ , wake up, don’t be dead, d-don’t leave me alone here, I c-can’t…you can’t be…”  
  
Hunk. Shiro forces himself to quit speculating on the maybes and focus on the now. Hunk is behind him, it sounds like, and he sounds terrified. Shiro turns his head, wincing slightly at the sharp stab of pain behind his eyes, and realizes his helmet is gone when his skull rubs against cold metal.   
  
He spots Hunk across the chamber. The yellow paladin is pinned beneath just as much rubble as Shiro is, which explains why he’s been begging Shiro to wake up rather than trying to assist. He has one arm partially free and stretched out as far as he can towards the black paladin, and Shiro can see a bit of one yellow shoulder guard and a little bit of black and white armor, but the rest of him is completely buried. Even as he watches, Hunk struggles valiantly to try and shove some of the debris off of himself, but he whimpers in pain a moment later and sinks back weakly.   
  
“I’m okay, Hunk,” Shiro says. His voice sounds hoarse and his throat feels raw, and he swallows a few times to try and remedy it. His mouth tastes like dust. “Stop struggling. You’ll hurt yourself more.”  
  
“Shiro!” Hunk’s eyes go wide. He’s a little too far away for Shiro to make out the details of his face, especially in this gloom and through the visor of Hunk’s helmet. But he can hear how choked the yellow paladin’s voice sounds, and knows he’s near tears. “Shiro, thank God, I wasn’t sure…I was so scared that you were…y-you weren’t moving and you didn’t answer when I called and I d-didn’t know if you were—“  
  
“Easy, Hunk,” Shiro says, as calmly as he can. Hunk’s on the edge of hysteria, and already prone to panicking the most out of any of the teens under his command. He needs to keep him as calm as possible to get them both out of this mess. “I’m okay. I’m alive, and it’s going to be okay, alright? Give me a minute, I’m going to get you out of there. Just sit tight and stay still so you don’t hurt yourself any further, okay?”   
  
“Okay…okay…but can you really get out?” Hunk sounds anxious, still scared. “You’re pinned too, there’s no way—“  
  
“Relax, Hunk,” Shiro says. “I’m going to come get you out. I promise.”   
  
Hunk quiets, and Shiro turns his attention to his first task, extricating himself from this mess. His left side is pinned, and his right leg is trapped at an awkward angle that means it won’t be much use at kicking all the debris off of him. His Galra arm is more difficult to assess given he can’t actually feel anything with it, but an experimental wiggle of his fingers tells him it’s working at least, somewhere above his head where his arm was flung out in the crash. He’ll need it the most anyway to free himself, so after another experimental test flex with his fingers and wrist, he lifts it.  
  
It doesn’t budge.   
  
His right arm screams in protest right at the connection point as it strains to shift and the metal arm goes nowhere, and he grunts in surprise. It felt like everything was in working order—what the hell was going on?  
  
He manages to awkwardly strain his head up to look above him, and realizes that his Galra arm is pinned like an insect to the metal floor he’s laying on, courtesy of what appears to be the Galra equivalent to a piece of rebar. The metal shaft juts out of the shattered remnants of the Galra ship’s internal structure, and slams through his prosthetic right between what would have been his radius and ulna on a human arm, close to his wrist.   
  
Shiro stares at it with bemusement and mounting frustration. _It’s funny,_ he notes idly after a moment, _if that were my real arm, I’d probably end up losing part of it from that degree of damage._ But he’s already taken care of that, he supposes.   
  
He attributes the vague snort he makes to stress and shock more than anything else.   
  
Fortunately, the prosthetic is working in his favor for once. Another experimental flex shows his fingers and wrist still responding perfectly—he’s just stuck. And he can’t even feel the alien rebar rammed through his arm since he lacks any kind of touch in it. Actually, the Galra arm is holding up pretty well, all things considered—the metal is punched in slightly where the bar slammed through it, but otherwise there aren’t any cracks or breakage, and the fact that his fingers are still responding means the inner workings and the nerve connections haven’t been destroyed. It’s not even disturbing to look at; it’s not _his_ arm impaled, it’s just a metal tool that happens to be attached to him.   
  
Getting free will be tricky, though. His left arm is pinned, which means he can’t use it to work the rebar free. Shiro tests the sturdiness of the bar experimentally with a few careful tugs on his arm. It’s pretty solidly embedded into the metal floor beneath his arm, but the bar itself is thin enough that he might be able to snap it with the right pressure.   
  
_This is going to hurt,_ he thinks to himself. But he can feel Hunk’s terrified eyes on him, and reminds himself that he _did_ make a promise. He’ got to free that kid, and he’s got to find the others, too—who knows what kind of situation they might be in.  
  
So he grits his teeth, braces himself, and wrenches his Galra wrist up with all the strength he can muster.  
  
The stump of his right arm screams in pain again, and for a moment spots dance in front of his eyes. Shiro keeps his jaw clamped shut to keep from screaming— _don’t freak Hunk out, he’s barely holding it together as it is, come on, come on_ —and focuses on breathing. _In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come on, get it together. He needs you. They_ all _need you._   
  
It hurts like hell, but it works. When the pain in what’s left of his arm reduces to a dull, continual throbbing, Shiro glances at his metal arm—now held straight up in the air above him. The rebar is still stabbing through his prosthetic’s forearm, but only about three feet of it. There’s still a piece buried in the metal above his head where the strength of the Galra arm snapped it clean off.   
  
_I can work with this,_ he thinks. He has to be careful as he moves the Galra arm so that he doesn’t crack himself in the head with the rebar still impaling it, but he’s able to use the prosthetic to shove the debris off of himself. The arm has no difficulty with the weight, and he’s free in just a few minutes, levering himself up into a sit awkwardly with his bruised natural arm. He’s sore all over, and as he sits up he can feel a painful tenderness in his side that means he’s at least bruised a few ribs, if not cracked them. His head throbs, and he can feel a trickle of blood running down the left side of his head, but an experimental touch at the injury with his left hand indicates the wound is merely superficial. He’ll live.  
  
He gets to his feet, staggering slightly as he shifts his weight too quickly. The last order of business is to trudge over to the closest part of the Galra hull, and slam his metal arm against it. The rebar embedded in his forearm is knocked free with a little difficulty and clatters to the metal ground, leaving a quarter-sized hole that he can see straight through. Shiro catches a glance of a few gears and wires on the inside, but nothing seems to be having difficulty and his fingers and wrist still move on command.   
  
It’s funny, he thinks, how a little bit of sand and grit in exactly the wrong places can lock his arm down so quickly he can’t even move it, but a sharp metal shaft rammed through the middle of his forearm doesn’t slow it down for a second. But as long as it’s working and he can use it to help the others, he really doesn’t care.   
  
Hunk is staring at him, looking both impressed and shocked, and Shiro makes his way over to him. “Let’s get you out, okay? And give me a status report. How are you feeling?”  
  
He starts digging the debris off the yellow paladin as Hunk starts to babble, voice tight and stressed. “Arm h-hurts,” he gasps. “Really, really bad. I think it’s broken maybe. Side hurts too. _Everything_ hurts but those hurt the most.” His expression becomes more anxious. “I don’t know about the others. I don’t know, I…I can’t remember the last time I saw them when we were crashing. I haven’t heard or seen any of them since…I don’t know if they’re okay, Shiro, or hurt, or a-alive, they could be dying and I haven’t been able t-to do _anything_ to help them and—“  
  
“Woah! Hunk, _calm down_ ,” Shiro orders. “I need you to calm down. Remember the breathing exercise we use during the meditation training for Voltron? I need you to try that, okay? Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.” He heaves the last of the crumpled mainframe consoles off of Hunk easily with his prosthetic, and crouches in front of him. Hunk’s attempts to use the breathing exercise are shallower than they should be; he’s got rib damage for sure, probably passed bruised into broken.   
  
“Now listen,” Shiro says, with as much confidence and command as he can muster, “You’ve already helped a _lot_ , okay, Hunk? You were able to wake me up. I heard you talking to me and that helped. Now I’m going to help you get out of this wreck, and then I’m going to look for the others. So you’ve done your part, okay?”  
  
Hunk doesn’t look like he believes it, but he lets Shiro help him sit up. Hunk’s left arm hangs awkwardly to one side, and Shiro can tell it’s badly broken within seconds. Between that and the ribs, the kid has to be suffering, and Shiro wants to get him out of this dangerous wreck as soon as he can.   
  
He reaches forward to slip his arm under Hunk’s right one to help him stand, but Hunk freezes and stares at the metal plating in shock. “Your arm,” he says after a moment, looking horrified. “Oh geez, there’s a _hole_ through it, it’s broken—“  
  
“It’s fine, Hunk,” Shiro reassures. “I can’t feel the damage and it’s still working. It’s going to be fine.” He levers Hunk into a stand, doing most of the lifting and slinging Hunk’s good arm over his shoulder. Shiro’s own ribs seem to whine in protest, but he ignores them, supporting the yellow paladin as best he can. Hunk does what he can to help, limping awkwardly next to him, and doing his best to choke his whimpers back.   
  
Shiro talks gently to him as he guides Hunk towards the massive hole torn in one side of the ship, and the sunlight beyond. The world outside has thankfully breathable atmosphere, or they’d all have died before ever reaching consciousness. There’s soft lavender grass outside, ringed by trees that are maybe four stories tall with deep blue leaves; they must have crash landed in some kind of field. The sky is yellow and there’s what looks like a bright green lake in the distance. The colors are definitely unusual, but otherwise the place reminds Shiro a bit of Earth. It would be a nice place to relax if it weren’t for the imminent threat to his team.   
  
He steers Hunk towards a tree far enough from the wreckage that he won’t be in danger if the ship starts to fall apart, speaking softly to Hunk as he goes. “It’s going to be okay, Hunk,” he promises. “We’re going to get through this. But I need you to try and hang on and to stay calm, okay? After all, I’m going to need you to be my mechanic after this, right? You told me yourself, that’s your job. You promised you’d help me out with this arm, and I’m definitely going to need your help with it once we’re back on the Castle of Lions. So we’ve got to stay calm, and make it through this, okay?”  
  
“I…okay,” Hunk acknowledges meekly. He does eventually calm, although it seems to be half out of fatigue and pain, like he just doesn’t have the energy to be near hysterical anymore.   
  
“That’s it,” Shiro encourages. He gets Hunk to the tree and helps him sit back against it, using the trunk to support him. Hunk settles down on the soft grass and cradles his broken arm in his lap, expression a mask of exhaustion and pain. Shiro sympathizes with him, and wishes he could ease his pain somehow. But there’s not much he can do without first aid supplies, and he doesn’t have time when he needs to try and find Lance, Pidge and Keith before it’s too late.   
  
He’s just about to turn back towards the wreckage, when there’s a crackle of static from Hunk’s helmet, and they hear Allura’s voice. It’s tinny and faint, and the connection is obviously weak, but it’s there. _“Hello? Paladins? Can you hear me?”_  
  
Shiro nods to Hunk even as he leans closer to hear. Hunk looks like he’s struggling to focus, but manages to speak with only a little pained bite to his voice. “Allura? I’m here with Shiro. Where are you?”  
  
There’s another crackle, but Allura’s voice makes it through again. _“Hunk! Shiro! Thank goodness. We’re in another sector of space from the one we found the warship in. When it went into hyperspeed, the Castle was attacked by a fleet of Galra fighters. We barely managed to keep them from stealing the Green Lion, but we were able to recover it. We had to make a wormhole jump to escape the attack, and the Castle took some damage, but Coran and I are fine. Where are you? What of the rest of the paladins?”_   
  
Shiro is relieved to hear that the two of them managed to escape the trap, at least—and recover the Green Lion, too. “We don’t know,” Shiro says, loudly enough that Hunk’s helm mic will pick up his voice. “The original coordinates were for the center of Zarkon’s empire. Pidge managed to scramble those coordinates, but I have no idea where we were sent. I’m about to search for the others.”  
  
Allura makes a frustrated sound over the comms. _“We will do what we can to locate you,”_ she says after a moment. _“This communications signal is very weak, which means you’re too far to travel to directly, but we’ll do what we can to find you. Unfortunately, the Castle was damaged and our systems were weakened in the firefight when we recovered the Green Lion. We must recharge our systems before we can generate a wormhole to come find you, even when we do locate your position.”_   
  
There’s a sinking feeling in Shiro’s gut at that. Hunk is hurting and in shock; he doesn’t want to leave the kid in this state any longer than he has to. The kid needs a cryo-pod, sooner rather than later. And what if the others are in just as bad a state? Or _worse?_ “How long is the ETA on that recharge, princess?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral, because Hunk is watching him and he doesn’t want to worry the yellow paladin further.   
  
_“We’re still evaluating the systems. Coran is looking as we speak. If we can maintain this connection I can keep you updated on progress.”_  
  
Shiro presses his lips together at that, but then nods. When he speaks next, it’s to Hunk. “Okay, buddy, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to leave you out here where it’s safer. I need you to man the communications. Keep in contact with Allura for me and keep her updated on our status, and I’ll go back in and find the others. If you see any Galra patrols or get word from Allura that they’re coming, I need you to give us a warning. Yell, shoot your bayard, whatever it takes, okay? Can you do that for me?”  
  
Hunk is still shaken, and still seems to be having trouble focusing, but after a moment he nods. “I got it, Shiro,” he says. “I can manage that much.” In fact, having a job assigned to him, even one as simple as ‘stay on the radio,’ seems to give him a little more resolve. He doesn’t seem to feel quite as useless as before, now that he has something he can do to contribute, and having a task to focus on keeps him distracted from his panic over the situation and his friends.   
  
“Okay. Great. I’m going to go look for the others. Stay safe.” He rests his hand on Hunk’s good shoulder for a moment, and then gets up and heads back into the dark interior of the crashed Glara warship.   
  
The chamber he and Hunk had woken in has no other paladins. It takes Shiro a minute or two to orient himself on where he is in the ship’s layout, since it’s tilted on its side and quite smashed up, but he thinks he and Hunk must have been flung into a side chamber off of the main bridge. He spots a section of the chamber that he thinks is the door, though it too is listing sideways, and blocked with some debris. He is able to push it aside easily and pry open the stuck metal door with his cybernetic arm, cutting it off its hinges so it won’t interfere with any return progress.   
  
On the other side of the door is the main bridge, just as he’d guessed, though it’s a wreck of its former self. Half of the exterior hull has crumpled inward and is laying along what had been the floor, which in turn has been broken and tamped down in a number of places. Computer consoles and equipment are strewn everywhere, and it’s much darker, with the sunlight unable to reach into the deeper crevices of the ruined deck.   
  
It’s actually the darkness that helps him find the next paladin. Shiro almost misses it, but underneath the wide, crumpled sheet of metal hull, he just barely spots a faint glow of teal. It’s a color Alteans favor—any Galra equipment or lights will be in sickly purple or blood red. But the thought of one of the others being trapped under that massive stretch of metal…  
  
Shiro hurries forward and crouches, trying to peer underneath the heavy metal hull. It doesn’t appear to be completely flat against the deck’s flooring. There’s a slight gap where Shiro can see the lights, and the hull is crumpled in so many places it creates some pockets of space. In one of those pockets, Shiro can see the teal indicator strips on someone’s paladin armor. It’s enough to light up Lance’s face in the darkness. The teen’s eyes are closed, and he’s flat on his stomach, pinned down by the metal hull; only the bubbles of space have kept him from being completely crushed. Shiro can only see his head, shoulders and arms, and the rest of him is hidden by crumpled metal. He’s completely silent.   
  
“Lance?” Shiro calls loudly. “Lance, c’mon, buddy. I need you to wake up.”  
  
He doesn’t stir. Shiro feels the first spike of alarm run through him. It’s too far away, and he can’t tell if Lance is just unconscious or if he’s…  
  
No. He refuses to believe it. Shiro sprawls out flat on his own stomach, and inches his left arm under the gap, stretching it out as far as he can to try and reach out for Lance. He’s just barely able to crawl his fingers forward to Lance’s jawline, and and sighs in relief when he finds the beat of a pulse at his fingertips.   
  
“C’mon, Lance, I need you to wake up,” he tries again, this time reaching around to stroke his thumb carefully over Lance’s cheekbone, just underneath the helmet visor. “C’mon, Lance, I’m going to need your help to get you out of this…”  
  
Lance stirs slightly, and his eyelids start to flutter.   
  
“That’s it, buddy. You’re doing great. Just open your eyes…”  
  
Lance does, groaning softly. His eyes are half lidded and disoriented, and he doesn’t seem to understand where he is at first. Shiro knows the exact moment it all jolts back to him, though, because his eyes suddenly fly open wide, and he twitches like he’s trying to thrash himself free but can’t get the leverage to move. A soft whine escapes him a moment later when he realizes he’s trapped, and Shiro can hear his breath start coming in rapid, shallow pants.   
  
Shiro reaches out hastily and presses his hand to the side of Lance’s helmet, holding him still. “Easy! Easy, Lance. Breathe.”  
  
“Sh…shiro?” Lance’s head jerks slightly, like he’s trying to look up to see. Shiro realizes that his helmet wrenched in between the floor and metal sheet on top of him makes it almost impossible for him to move his head. He’s probably not as visible to Lance as Lance is to him.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m right here, Lance. Take it easy and try to breathe for me, okay?” He shifts his hand to rest just underneath the teen’s jaw, the only part of him he can really reach. It’s not much in the way of comfort, but at least Lance will be able to feel that he’s there.   
  
Lance tries to do what Shiro says, but Shiro can tell in just a few seconds that he’s having trouble breathing when flattened underneath such a heavy object. His breaths slow a little, but remain too shallow, like he can’t get enough air.   
  
Just when he thinks Lance is calming enough to try and figure out how to free him, though, the blue paladin jerks again in a panic, and he rasps, “Shiro! Shiro, I can’t—“  
  
“Woah, easy, Lance,” Shiro says, alarmed at the new fear in Lance’s voice. “Tell me what’s wrong.”   
  
“I c-can’t feel my leg, Shiro,” Lance gasps. “I can’t feel anything. Oh God, what if I lost it? What if it’s not _there_ anymore? I can’t—I c-can’t—“  
  
“Easy, Lance,” Shiro says, wishing he could reach just a _little_ better so he could put his hand on the kid’s shoulder or _something_. He settles for keeping his hand resting just underneath Lance’s jaw, just in case he needs to stop him from thrashing in a panic again. He can feel the poor kid shaking, and keeps his voice as soothing as he can for Lance’s benefit. “Easy. Sssh. It’s going to be okay, Lance, I promise.”  
  
Lance’s shaking doesn’t lessen. He does wiggle a little, and at first Shiro’s worried he’s going to start thrashing in a panic anyway. But he realizes a moment later that Lance is actually working one of his arms, down by his sides, up through the tightly crumpled metal around him. His hand latches on to Shiro’s by his throat, and he grips Shiro’s fingers desperately, like he’s some kind of lifeline.   
  
“I can’t _feel_ it, Shiro,” he rasps thickly. “It doesn’t feel _there._ ”  
  
He feels for the kid. He knows that edge of terror all too well, and squeezes Lance’s fingers back gently. “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Lance. We haven’t even seen the damage yet. It’s going to be okay. And _whatever_ happens, I’ll help you through it. I promise.”  
  
Lance shudders at the words, and his hand tightens on Shiro’s. “But if…if it isn’t—I can’t—I can’t be a paladin without—I can’t even go home like this—“  
  
“Shhh. Lance, calm down. Listen, even if it _does_ come to that, and I’m not saying it has, _it’s going to be okay._ There’s no way in hell any of us would leave the leg of Voltron without a leg to stand on, okay?”  
  
Lance’s lips actually twitch slightly at the wordplay that he might have enjoyed more in any other circumstance. Shiro suspects it’s a shock-fueled, scared smile more than anything else. “R…right.”  
  
“Good. So just try to relax and focus on breathing as best as you can, and I’m going to figure this out, okay?”  
  
“Okay…” Lance's hand squeezes Shiro’s again, and Shiro can feel his fingers trembling. He’s obviously scared to death, dazed, and in shock, but he’s trying his best. Shiro couldn’t be more proud of him.   
  
That means he has to do his part to keep his promise. Shiro rubs his thumb absently over the back of Lance’s fingers to try and keep him calm, even as his eyes scan the rest of the wreckage underneath the metal hull with Lance. Maybe there’s a way out, or some way he can direct Lance to wiggle free, or a better angle he can reach in at to try and assist.   
  
He doesn’t spot a convenient tunnel or miracle solution, but as his eyes adjust to the gloom beneath the wreckage, he _does_ spot something else. Behind Lance and farther in under the warped metal hull, he can see a tuft of hair that he recognizes after a moment as Pidge’s. All he can make out is the top of her head, and a few shattered remains of her helmet, broken around her like a cracked halo. She’s deeply hidden in the shadows, and her indicator lights on the paladin armor don’t illuminate her, which means it’s badly damaged. She isn’t moving, and she’s too far in for Shiro to reach to even check for a pulse.  
  
Shiro can feel an edge of very real fear at the thought of any of his team so clearly in danger and so frustratingly out of reach, but he forces it back down with sheer willpower. Lance is still conscious and is relying on Shiro to stay focused and keep him calm; he can’t do that, or help Pidge, if he’s in a panic himself. _Be scared later. Get them out_ now.   
  
“Lance,” he says, slowly and calmly, “Pidge is behind you. I know you can’t turn your head to see her, but she’s on your left side.”  
  
Lance blinks dazedly, and then rasps, “I…right. Yeah, I…I remember now. I…I tried to…to push her out of the way when the…the wall started caving in…I don’t know if…I didn’t think—“  
  
“Shhhh, that’s good, Lance,” Shiro praises softly. “You did a good job protecting her, I’m proud of you. Has she talked to you at all? Has she been conscious?”  
  
“I…I don’t think so. No. I’ve been in and out…few times…never heard anything.”  
  
“Alright. Can you try and reach her? Stretch out your left arm if you can. A little farther down. That’s it, Lance.”   
  
Shiro watches with barely contained anxiousness as Lance’s hand creeps agonizingly closer to Pidge’s head. It stops short with his fingers just barely brushing her hair, though, and although Lance makes a valiant attempt to reach farther back and stretch as far as he can, his pinned torso and head leave him unable to move. Lance groans slightly in pain, and then his breath starts to speed up again as new fear takes over. “Sh-shiro, I can’t…I can’t reach…I don’t know if she’s still…I c-can’t hear her breathing, Shiro, I—“  
  
Not good. Shiro just got him calmer; he can’t let Lance start to panic again, not in his situation. He squeezes Lance’s hand again, and says, “Okay, calm down, Lance. Stay calm. We’re going to take care of her, okay? But I’m going to need your help with that, so I need you to calm down, and focus, okay? Are you focusing? Just like we do with Voltron.”  
  
Lance shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. Shiro can practically hear him trying to focus, and it’s a clear struggle when he’s still in shock and so much pain. But his breathing eventually slows again, and he rasps softly, “Okay. Okay, I can…what do I do?”  
  
Even despite the awful situation, Shiro finds himself smiling just slightly at the kid’s resolve. Injured, mentally drained, trapped, and scared for his teammates’ lives, and he’s still willing to do what he can to help. The Lions picked well with this kid.   
  
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Shiro says, confidently as he can. “I’m going to lift this metal piece up off of you. When I do that, Lance, I need you to grab Pidge, and pull her out with you.”  
  
Lance’s eyes go wide in shock, and he struggles to try and see Shiro’s face. “Y-you can’t do that, Shiro,” he gasps. “It’s too heavy. It’s t-too heavy for…for _any_ human to lift.”  
  
Shiro can hear him starting to get worked up again. And truth be told, Lance isn’t _wrong_ , exactly. No human could lift this thing on their own for certain. Shiro’s not even entirely sure he can do it himself. But he’s not exactly a normal human anymore. _Normal_ humans don’t come equipped with highly advanced cybernetic prosthetics that can trade punch for punch unflinchingly with a seasoned well-armed soldier that outweighs him twice over.   
  
And Shiro doesn’t exactly have any other options. He could try cutting them free by activating his arm’s ability. But that could take forever and could easily crush Lance or Pidge when the hull’s weight shifts…assuming they even _had_ that kind of time. Lance is struggling to breathe and may have a severed leg, meaning suffocation or blood loss are very real threats, and Pidge’s unresponsiveness could have dire consequences. Shiro can’t afford to waste any more of their time.   
  
So he just repeats, with far more confidence than he feels, “Lance, I’m going to lift this metal piece off of you, and you’re going to grab Pidge and get out of there. Okay? Tell me what your job is.”  
  
Lance is still wide-eyed, and looks disbelieving and dazed. But after a moment he manages to stammer, “Get Pidge…get out.”  
  
“Good. Now I’m going to stand up, so I need to move. But I’m still here and I’m not leaving you or Pidge behind. Okay?”  
  
“Y…yes.”  
  
Shiro squeezes his hand reassuringly one last time, and scoots back awkwardly from the gap under the metal, withdrawing his arm and getting to his feet. Viewed from this angle, his task is daunting. There isn’t anything he can really use as a solid handhold; the metal is crumpled and bent but doesn’t really have an edge he can feasibly grip. Shiro’s not about to let something like _that_ stop him from saving his team, however, so after a moment of consideration he lights up his Galra prosthetic and rams it into a piece of the hull he thinks he can maintain a good pivot point on. The metal sizzles and screeches loudly as he drives the violet-white fingers through it, but it’s not made of the same superior material as his arm, and his arm wins. He’s able to carve out a small handhold before deactivating it, and braces his metal wrist with his left hand.   
  
“Ready, Lance?” he calls.  
  
“Yes…hurry, Shiro…please…”  
  
Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever heard Lance sound so young before. It’s not something he wants to hear again. “Okay, buddy, on the count of three. One…two… _three!_ ”  
  
Shiro’s metal fingers dig in hard and he lifts, flexing the metal arm and pulling upward. He leaves most of the work to the limb, but strains with his left arm as well, feels it through his chest and his legs. His ribs protest badly and his right upper arm throbs, but he ignores them. _Lift. Do it. Go._  
  
The hefty metal sheet of the hull tremors slightly, and he feels it move up a fraction of an inch, but it doesn’t go further. Shiro shifts his stance and his grip and puts more force into it, teeth grinding with the effort, and it raises another half inch, but doesn’t budge past that.   
  
He feels hyperaware of little details as he struggles. He can hear Lance’s rasping breath, and the whir of the gears in his arm as they fight the weight of the metal hull. He can feel warm metal beneath the fingers of his left hand, and feel the vibrations on his prosthetic as the hull trembles and grinds. He can smell dust and smoke and the iron tang of metal and blood.   
  
He can feel the way the metal sheet starts to sink again, and hear Lance’s terrified whine in response. And suddenly, he also feels _fury._ He is not going to lose to a piece of metal, _not_ when his crew is on the line. He refuses to take a loss in this fight and he doesn’t _care_ what the costs are. He snarls in determination and shoves with every last bit of willpower and strength he has.  
  
The Galra arm responds.  
  
Shiro’s not sure _why_ it seems to jump to life then and there, but it feels familiar, so this can’t be the first time. Maybe it’s wired to respond to something in his brain chemically—a surge of adrenaline, an emotional impulse, an instinct for survival. Maybe it’s been enhanced somehow with the druids’ strange magics that always seem to favor the strongest of fighters. Whatever the case, the arm is uniquely _Galra_ in its design as an incredibly powerful weapon, and it’s equally uniquely _Galra_ in its enthusiastic response to _victory or death_. And maybe it’s not a battle in the arena, but to Shiro it’s a battle all the same, and one neither he nor his prosthetic intends to accept defeat on.  
  
So as he shoves hard on the metal hull, he can _hear_ the mechanics in his arm start to whine louder as it amps up the power, and he can see something in the quarter-sized hole through his forearm spark an angry white-violet. He yells as he pulls with everything he has, mentally and physically, and the metal hull starts to rise. Two inches, six, a foot—it keeps going, slow but steady. A little higher and he’s able to twist his metal wrist and shift his arm for better leverage, and a little after that he’s able to lock the metal arm in place, holding the piece of hull steady.  
  
His view of the underside is somewhat limited, but he can manage to see Lance sprawled out on the cracked metal of the flooring. The blue paladin’s leg is, thankfully, still attached, albeit extremely mangled and broken in at least three places, while the other is twisted awkwardly. Pidge is a little further behind him, curled on her side in the shattered remnants of her armor. She still hasn’t moved, and her face is scarily devoid of any expression. Lance’s is not; he’s staring up at Shiro in shock and awe, apparently stunned into stillness over the feat Shiro is even now still performing.  
  
“Lance,” he reminds through grit teeth, trying to still sound as calm as he can, “Get Pidge. Get out.”   
  
Lance jerks like he’s been smacked, but gasps, “Right. Right. Pidge, out,” and turns weakly to attend to his one assigned task. He’s got about three feet of clearance now in which to move, which is enough for him at least to crawl, dragging himself by his arms—his left leg, the mangled one, doesn’t respond at all, and his right one doesn’t provide much assistance in propelling him. It means he moves agonizingly slowly, even if Shiro can tell he’s putting every bit of effort he has into moving.  
  
The lack of speed is frustrating, because Shiro knows he’s on a time limit. His Galra arm is louder than it’s ever been, whirring and clicking continually like an overheating computer. It feels vaguely familiar but also fills Shiro with a sense of unease, because he’s not sure how long it can hold up and under what circumstances. Still, the prosthetic will probably fare better than the rest of him, and he knows the _real_ time limit is how long the rest of his body can hold out before it collapses. Even with the Galra arm doing most of the work, he can feel the strain on the rest of his muscles as he’s forced to bear the weight. His ribs are screaming in protest, now, and what’s left of his right arm throbs with increased intensity the longer he holds the hull up. There’s only so long that he can last before he drops the metal, and the fact that he’s managing even now is practically a miracle. A normal human would have been crushed under the weight already.  
  
But if he fails, Lance and Pidge die. That’s absolutely unacceptable. So he continues to hold the metal hull up despite everything, using his determination and absolute refusal to accept anything short of victory to fuel himself and the alien prosthetic grafted to his side.   
  
Lance reaches Pidge, and wearily hooks one of his arms underneath her shoulders. He twists to try and drag her free, but pulling an additional person along with only one free limb is a daunting task. He tries to compensate with his twisted but still semi-usable right leg, and gasps in pain every time he puts pressure on it to try and propel them. Shiro can all but see the energy draining out of him.  
  
“Keep it up, Lance,” he hisses through clenched teeth, struggling against the weight but needing to help his teammate any way he can. “You’re doing great. C’mon, buddy, it’s just five more feet and you’re both safe. You can do five more feet, Lance. I know you can.”  
  
Lance looks exhausted, but the words seem to help. With renewed determination and what’s clearly the last of his strength, he drags himself forward again, tugging Pidge along after him. He’s wearing the same expression he wore the night he woke from his coma just long enough to shoot Sendak in the back, and Shiro knows then that the kid won’t be giving up.   
  
“That’s it, Lance,” he encourages. “I know it’s hard, but we’ve got to protect Pidge and the others. Just two more feet, Lance, you’re almost there.”  
  
With excruciating effort, Lance manages to haul himself the last bit of distance to what’s left of the empty bridge deck, still clutching Pidge close to his side as he collapses on his stomach again. Shiro can feel his whole body starting to tremble with the exertion of holding up the metal, but before he drops it, he glances underneath one last time. If Lance and Pidge had been together, maybe Keith was there…  
  
But he’s not, and Shiro is actually grateful for that. He knows Lance wouldn’t be able to get in and out again, not in his condition. He’d barely managed to drag Pidge, and Keith would have outweighed her significantly.   
  
Satisfied he’s not crushing the last member of his crew, Shiro takes a step back and finally, _finally,_ wrenches his metal arm free from the hull and lets it drop. It collapses to the metal deck with a teeth-jarring thud and a screech of metal. Lance yelps in pain and surprise as it jars his leg, too, and curls further inward on himself.   
  
“Sorry, Lance,” Shiro says, even as he rushes to them. His whole body aches, especially his side and right arm, but he forces himself to disregard them. The prosthetic, at least, has quieted again, the angry whirring reducing once more to a quiet hum of activity.  
  
“S’fine,” Lance half-slurs, half-moans. “Pidge…is she…?”  
  
Shiro gently untangles Pidge from Lance’s arm and shifts her onto her back, running his left hand over her throat as he searches for a pulse. He finds it with a sigh of relief, weak but there, and she appears to be breathing too, if shallowly.   
  
“She’s alive,” he says. “She’s alive, Lance. You did a great job.”  
  
Lance groans in relief, and then curls up even further on himself, hands slipping down to clutch at his broken leg. Shiro can tell he’s trying to choke back noises of pain, but the poor kid’s not really succeeding well.   
  
“Hang on, Lance,” Shiro says urgently. “I’ll help you as soon as I can, okay?” He’s already examining Pidge for injuries, running his hands carefully through her matted, bloodstained hair, scattering little shards of white and green helmet. There’s a deep gash on the left side of her head that cuts down to bone. At the very least she has to have a concussion, and possibly a skull fracture, which might explain why she’s not waking. That’s worrisome—head injuries can be fatal if not treated immediately, and Shiro still has no idea when Allura and Coran will arrive with the Castle and the cryo-pods they desperately need.   
  
The rest of Pidge is no better. Most of her left side has taken nasty injuries as well. Her left arm and leg both look broken and her left side is bruised heavily where she, too, is undoubtedly sporting broken ribs. Most of her armor has shattered, and Shiro realizes without it she would almost certainly be dead. His only consolation is that, despite feeling very carefully along her neck and back, he doesn’t think she has any spinal damage. If she had, he would have been scared to move her, but it isn’t safe to leave her in here either.   
  
He scoots around her to check on Lance next, easing the blue paladin on to his back as gently as he can. Lance groans as he’s moved, and his expression is dazed and pained. Shiro is relieved to hear that his breathing, at least, has improved, now that he’s no longer being flattened; they’re still harsh gasps of pain, but no longer forcibly shallow, at least. But other than that, Lance isn’t doing much better. Neither leg has been severed, and Shiro figures Lance had lost feeling due to cut off circulation, though he appears to be getting it back now based on his pained moans. His left leg is badly broken in three places, and Shiro’s stomach turns when he sees bone edging out next to the blue knee guard. The other leg isn’t broken, but does appeared to be badly twisted and severely banged up. His armor is cracked everywhere, and from the waist down, the indicator lights are no longer working.   
  
“You’re gonna be fine, Lance,” Shiro says confidently, and hopes the cryo-pods can fix damage this bad. “You’ve still got both legs. See? I told you not to worry.”  
  
Lance just blinks at him wearily and groans. The poor kid’s so worn out…it had probably cost him his last reserves to drag himself and Pidge free.  
  
Shiro frowns. He needs to get them out of here now. Back to Hunk, and Allura’s signal, out of this oppressive metal shell and somewhere a little less likely to completely fall apart on them.   
  
“Lance,” he says softly, leaning into the blue paladin’s line of sight, “I’m going to get you both out of here, okay? But I can’t carry you both. I need to take Pidge first, so Hunk can watch her. I’m going to take her to Hunk, and then I’m going to come right back and get you out of here, okay? I’m coming right back. I promise.”  
  
Lance blinks at him blearily again. After a moment, he says, “Hunk?”  
  
“That’s right. Hunk’s outside and he’s safe.” _If injured._ “I’ll take you to him in just a few minutes, okay?”  
  
“Kay….” Apparently spent, Lance’s head sags to the side, and his eyes slide half shut. He’s not quite unconscious, but he’s definitely exhausted.   
  
“I’ll be right back,” Shiro repeats, as he slides his hands under Pidge’s body as gently as possible and lifts her in his arms. She doesn’t stir, or moan, or give any sign that she’s alive at all. Shiro has to remind himself repeatedly that she is, and she’ll be fine.   
  
Hunk is anxious when Shiro arrives with Pidge, and shoots straight to terrified when he sees the extent of the damage. He promises repeatedly to take care of her and make sure she’s settled as best as possible, valiantly ignoring his broken arm as best he can, as Shiro gently lays her down in the lavender grass next to Hunk’s tree. The yellow paladin is already yammering over his headset and reporting the latest news to Allura—connection must still be open—when Shiro turns and bolts back towards the warship.   
  
Lance is still in that dazed, exhausted state when Shiro gets back to him, but when Shiro touches his shoulder he does stir a little, blinking wearily. “Time to get out of here, buddy,” Shiro says. “This is going to hurt, but we’ll go as careful as possible, okay?”  
  
He lifts Lance as gently as he can, but even the smoothest of his efforts jar the blue paladin’s broken leg, and he whines softly in pain. Shiro suspects he lacks the strength to do anything more, at this point. Shiro does what he can to make the journey as easy as possible, but Lance is clearly in agony by the time he crouches to set the teenager on the grass near Pidge and Hunk. The poor kid is trembling, and looks close to passing out.  
  
“What’s the status, Hunk?” Shiro asks, as he helps Lance lay down, supporting his head carefully.  
  
“Allura’s still got over an hour before she can get here,” Hunk answers. His voice is tight with pain, but he seems to be fighting to control it as best he can, especially after seeing his friends in so much agony. “They’re trying to fix the systems but the Castle’s still gotta recharge…”   
  
He looks worried as he stares down at Pidge. In the time it took Shiro to recover Lance, Hunk had rearranged her so her head is resting in his lap, turned at an angle to keep the pressure off her damaged skull. It seems to be helping her breathing a little, which is shallow and gasping from the broken ribs, but she is still by far the worst off of the current group.   
  
“Pidge can make it,” Shiro says, once again finding himself faking more confidence than he actually feels. “All of us can. Just keep in contact with Allura and keep an eye out for enemies, Hunk. It’s on you to protect these two until I come back with Keith, okay? I’m not sure Lance can help fight. With his armor damaged he can’t summon his bayard.”   
  
This is something Hunk understands well, as the yellow paladin. His Lion is built for defense and protecting the rest of the team, and it’s absolutely a trait he carries over to non-piloting missions. “Okay,” he says, eyes narrowing in determination. “I got it, Shiro. Find Keith.” And a little less determined, much smaller, he whispers, _“Please.”_  
  
“You know I will,” Shiro answers. And he turns back to the warship once again.  
  
The main bridge is empty when he returns to it. Despite overturning every lose piece of metal and peeking under more caved in sections of the outer hull, he sees no trace of Keith. It’s the same in the half dozen side rooms and hallways attached to it, and after ten minutes of searching Shiro starts getting very worried. Keith can’t have gotten far; he was with them when they crashed. He tries to remember where the red paladin had been in relation to the others, and vaguely recalls Keith trying to cut open an airlock with his bayard for them to jump from, with the plan of using the jetpacks to slow their decent. He’d barely made any progress before the whole ship started shaking badly and everything descended into chaos.   
  
He’d been closer to the starboard side of the warship, though. Shiro changes tactics and tries focusing on that side, and almost immediately finds a hallway so caved in it’s impassable. Shiro isn’t about to let that stop him, and squeezes out through another narrow gap in the hull, planning to circle around the ship on the outside and enter from another angle.   
  
That's when he spots the crumpled red, white, and black form, standing out starkly in a bed of lavender grass.   
  
Shiro’s eyes widen and he stumbles forward, picking his way carefully around the wreckage scattered all around the field. They’re on the opposite side of the ship from Hunk, Lance and Pidge, closer to a fringe of trees, completely blocked from view. The ground is covered in shards of metal and the glass-like material the Galra warships use for the large observation windows on the ships’ various decks.   
  
There’s a very high volume of shattered pieces in a trail leading to Keith, and it takes Shiro all of five seconds to realize the red paladin had been ejected _through_ the already weak material in the crash and out into the field. Shiro is immediately alarmed. Most people ejected in _car_ crashes end up severely injured or dead; he’s scared to find out what kind of damage Keith has sustained from a crashed _warship._  
  
Shiro crouches next to Keith, and is immediately struck by how the lavender grass is stained a dark red-purple beneath his boots, saturated and slippery. It’s frightening how much blood the teenager has already lost, and Shiro doesn’t even know the source of it yet. Keith is crumpled on his side in an awkward heap where he landed after being thrown, helmet gone and hair in his face. His armor is no longer white or whole, but blood-stained and shattered, and none of the indicator lights are on. The black undersuit of the paladin uniform is sliced and frayed in a number of places from mental and glass shards, some of which are still loosely embedded in his body. There are several burns on his freshly exposed skin, though whether from an explosion or encountering superheated metal shrapnel, Shiro isn’t sure.   
  
“Keith?” Shiro calls loudly, barely keeping a panicked edge from his voice. Keith doesn’t _look_ like he could have lived through this. There’s so much blood, and the chances of surviving when thrown from a wreck are so low…  
  
Keith doesn’t respond, but when Shiro slips his fingers beneath the red paladin’s jaw, he’s relieved to feel a pulse. But it’s so weak and thready, weaker even than Pidge’s had been. He hasn’t even seen all the damage yet and he _knows_ Keith is in bad shape.   
  
“Keith, buddy…hang on,” Shiro says urgently, as he starts to inspect for spine or head injuries. He needs to find the source of all that blood, but he can’t until he knows it’s safe to shift Keith. In what is perhaps the greatest miracle Shiro has found so far, he doesn’t feel any sort of break or serious damage when he runs his hands over the teen’s spine and neck. His armor might be broken, but it had at least protected him that much before shattering. He runs his hands carefully over Keith’s skull next, and finds a bloody lump that’s got to hurt, but isn’t immediately life threatening as far as he can tell.   
  
When he finishes and brushes the hair out of Keith’s face, he’s shocked to find the red paladin’s gray eyes are open. They’re glassy and unfocused, staring dully ahead, and he doesn’t react to Shiro brushing his hair away, but he’s _awake._   
  
“Keith?” Shiro says, placing his left hand on the side of the red paladin’s face as gently as he can, avoiding the burns and bruises. “Keith, can you hear me?”  
  
For a long moment there’s no reaction, and Shiro starts to get scared that maybe Keith’s taken a worse head injury than he thought. But Keith’s eyes flicker for a moment, shifting up to stare at him briefly. He only manages to for a second or two before his eyes slide away, unfocused, back to staring dully ahead. But it’s clear that on some level, at least, he’s aware that Shiro is there.   
  
Shiro hates seeing him this way. Keith has never been as antsy or outwardly energetic as Lance, but he’s always had an inner tension to him, a kind of restless energy that Shiro can always see in him somewhere. Much like the element he and his Lion are bonded to, Keith is like fire, always burning bright on the inside even if he outwardly appears calm or disinterested. But that energy is gone now; it’s like someone snuffed the fire out and left only a few exhausted trails of smoke. It scares Shiro in a way he can’t really describe.   
  
He’s not going to lose Keith now. “I’m going to move you, okay, buddy?” Shiro says. He’s not sure if Keith can fully understand him, but he’s not going to go completely silent on the kid if he is awake. “It might hurt a little, but I need to stop this bleeding.”  
  
Keith says nothing, but Shiro is sure he’s not imagining the slight tremble of his head that looks an awful lot like a nod.  
  
Taking that as an okay, Shiro carefully eases Keith onto his back. Keith makes a soft noise of distress somewhere between a whimper and a groan as he’s moved, a noise Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever heard from Keith before. He wants to tell him it’s going to be okay…but then he finds the source of the bleeding, and for the first time he’s not sure it will be.  
  
One of the glass-like shards from the window Keith had been thrown through is embedded deeply in his stomach. The black undersuit of the paladin armor is shredded around it, and saturated with blood, which oozes around the shard. It drips over Keith’s sides and onto the no longer lavender grass, dark and sticky. And despite the foreign object still being lodged in his body, it doesn’t appear to have slowed or stopped the bleeding any.  
  
Other details seem to become almost painfully obvious, now that Shiro can see the full picture. The way Keith’s breathing is shallow and rapid, the way his skin is too pale. His inability to focus, his glassy eyes. And when Shiro feels Keith’s fingers, they’re too cool. It all indicates blood loss in a bad way, and Keith’s body is already shutting down blood flow to his extremities in a desperate attempt to survive just a little longer.   
  
Allura’s ETA was still over an hour out. But Shiro realizes, with a frightening sort of certainty, that Keith’s not going to make it that long. Not bleeding this badly. Not wounded this much.   
  
_No,_ Shiro insists. _No, I’m not losing_ any _of my crew. Never again. Not if I can do anything to stop it._   
  
He has to stop the bleeding. The biggest threat to Keith is blood loss. If Shiro can slow it or stop it even temporarily, just long enough for Allura to arrive and get Keith into a cryo-pod, he’ll live. He just has to stall, just long enough to give Keith even a _chance._   
  
But he has no way to do that. The first aid kits are on the Lions, back in the Castle, and he has no first aid supplies on hand. He could try cutting up the black undersuits of the armor into strips to use as temporary bandages. But while that might work for some of the smaller gashes Keith has, Shiro knows he doesn’t have enough material to deal with that impaled stomach…and even if he did, he knows bandages alone won’t stop an injury that severe from getting worse.   
  
Keith’s breath hitches in obvious pain, and Shiro runs his left thumb over the teen’s knuckles on one hand, trying to offer comfort. He can’t do much else; there’s very little skin left unmarred by injury, and Shiro is afraid to hurt him by touching any of the gashes or bruises or burns…  
  
Shiro freezes, and stares at the burn along one of Keith’s arms. Then, very slowly, he lifts his right hand to stare at it, like he’s only just now seeing it before for the first time.   
  
It can weld metal doors shut. If he activates it, it’ll almost certainly be hot enough to cauterize human skin.   
  
Shiro swallows, hesitant. Cauterization is…not pretty, and not painless. The thought of using his Galra prosthetic to cause a teammate immeasurable amounts of pain is not one that sits well with him. He’s used it to cause enough pain as it is, and he’s not sure he could forgive himself for it in any other circumstance. But if he _doesn’t_ do this, Keith will die within the hour. And Shiro would _never_ forgive himself for letting anyone on his crew die when he could have taken an action, however unpleasant and distasteful, to save him. Keith’s life is worth _far_ more than his own guilt.   
  
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and focuses. Breathe out the nervousness, the unease, the fear. Let only confidence and strength remain. Keith will need it. He can’t afford to be anything less than strong and in control right now.   
  
When he opens his eyes, Shiro feels resolve and determination. His mouth is set in a grim line as he leans forward and gently brushes Keith’s hair back from his eyes again, setting his real hand along the side of the teen’s face. “Keith? Can you focus on me? I know it’s hard, but try. Just for a little bit.”  
  
It’s an obvious struggle, but Keith does his best, eyes flickering to meet Shiro’s again. Shiro can practically see the effort it’s taking for Keith to maintain even that level of concentration, but the kid has always been a fighter, and too stubborn to know when to quit. That might be what saves him today.   
  
“Keith,” Shiro says, slowly and carefully so he’s sure the teen will understand, “I’m going to do something to try and help you make it until we can get you in a cryo-pod. But I’m not gonna lie to you, buddy, it’s…it’s gonna hurt. A lot. Okay? Can you bear with me?”  
  
Keith stares at him for a long time, and Shiro’s afraid maybe his attention has wavered again, or he’s zoned out somehow. But after a long moment he nods slowly. That action alone seems to exhaust him, and his eyes slide away again, unfocused.  
  
“Thank you, Keith. For trusting me,” Shiro says. He means it, every single word.   
  
He moves quickly after that. Keith doesn’t have much time left, and Shiro doesn’t intend to waste a second more of it than he has to. He uses his left arm to pin Keith’s shoulders to the ground, and straddles his legs to keep them pinned as well, careful to not put too much of his own weight on Keith so he doesn’t injure him further. Once he’s safely pinned, Shiro flexes his metal fingers and grips the large shard buried in Keith’s abdomen, extracting it carefully so he doesn’t cause further injury.  
  
Keith’s eyes open wide, and his expression grows sharper from pain. He tries to instinctually pull away, but he’s too weak to fight or flee in his state. His less damaged right hand shoots up to wrap around Shiro’s real arm and grip tight, and Shiro doesn’t dislodge him. The poor kid’s going to need something to hold onto by the time this is all over.   
  
The shard comes free, and Shiro flings it aside in disgust. Then comes the part he dreads most. “Bear with me, buddy,” he says, as he activates the Galra prosthetic. It lights up a bright violet-white with a thrum of power, and Shiro can hear it faintly crackling with energy. He grits his teeth, breathes out through his nose one last time, and presses it to the gaping wound in Keith’s stomach.   
  
The sizzle of flesh burning and the scent of charred meat hits almost immediately, and for a moment Shiro wavers at the frighteningly familiar scent and sound. Something dark scratches at the back of his mind, trying to force its way forward, reaching out to take him away.   
  
But before he can slide too far, in the fraction of a second it takes, Keith arches beneath him and screams, eyes wide in shock and pain. It’s a horrifying reality to return to, but it does wrench Shiro back into the present. Keith is hurting, is _dying_ , and he has to focus to give him a chance. He forces every scrap of willpower and focus he has on the task at hand, and as gruesome and upsetting as it is, it does keep him going.   
  
He pins Keith back down to the ground as the poor kid tries to thrash away, still crying out in agony. “It’s okay, Keith, it’s okay buddy, this won’t take long, you’re doing great,” he reassures, over and over, repeating the same things in as gentle a voice as he can manage while exerting his strength to hold the paladin down. The hand Keith has on his left arm tightens painfully, but Shiro can hardly complain, especially when Keith’s agonized scream turns into a choked sob. Shiro just bears the pain. It’s only a fraction of what Keith is dealing with.  
  
His glowing prosthetic works methodically but quickly. Shiro doesn’t want to cause Keith more pain than is necessary, but he’s not going to screw up the job and cost Keith his life, either. As it turns out, cauterization is much easier when one’s own fingers can super heat. The Galra prosthetic is dexterous enough to let him fold the gash together and pinch it closed section by section, and the energy produced burns the wound shut as soon as he does. It’s much cleaner and more efficient than using a heated knife, and lets him at least minimize the burn damage.   
   
Keith lets out another agonized cry that chokes off halfway through, and his fingers dig so tightly into Shiro’s arm he’s almost sure he feels the paladin armor crack. “It’s okay, buddy,” he reassures. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s almost over. You’re doing so good, just a little more…”  
  
The last open part of the wound closes with a hiss, and Shiro immediately deactivates his prosthetic, pulling it away and shifting back to Keith’s side. Keith’s stomach is still slick with lost blood, and the burn scars are ugly and painful looking, but the bleeding has stopped. It will still be rough, but hopefully he’ll be able to last long enough to get to help, and the cryo-pod should erase the damage.   
  
Shiro moves just in time. The teen lurches awkwardly, and Shiro recognizes it for what it is, rolling him on his side just in time for him to vomit into the grass. Keith gags and whimpers, shaking badly from the aftershock of the cauterization and the pain it gives him.   
  
Shiro rubs his back sympathetically until he’s done heaving, and then shifts him again, cradling the wounded teenager against his chest to offer what comfort he can. He wraps both arms around him—carefully, so as not to put pressure on any injuries, cybernetic arm supporting Keith’s body and his real hand supporting Keith’s head. Keith sags bonelessly against him, out of strength and clearly suffering, and even the choked noises of distress coming from somewhere deep in his throat sound exhausted and muted.   
  
“It’s okay, Keith,” he says soothingly. “Sssh, it’s okay. I’m so sorry we had to do that, but you did an amazing job. You held out so well, you’ve shown so much strength today. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna stop hurting as soon as Allura can get to us, sssh, it’s alright…”  
  
Keith shudders, and Shiro can feel the slightest pressure on his armor as the paladin presses his face into it, like he’s trying to just hide from his pain. Shiro wishes it were that easy, but he lets Keith take what comfort he can get, continuing to murmur soothing nonsense to him and holding him close. It takes a while, but eventually Keith’s shuddering subsides, and his body slumps further, spent. The pained noises begin to quiet, and the sharp clarity of pain in his eyes dulls again to the same glassy, barely focused stare as before.   
  
Shiro lays him down carefully in the grass again when Keith finally calms. Keith makes a soft sound of protest mixed with fear, but Shiro continues to make soothing little shushes as he uses his prosthetic to tear strips from his own paladin undersuit. Keith’s other wounds aren’t nearly as bad as the stomach injury and shouldn’t require cauterization—Shiro will not put him through that agony again if he doesn’t have to—but they still need to be at least bound before Shiro dares to move him far. He picks the glass and metal shards out of Keith’s arms and legs and wraps them carefully. Keith twitches and and groans occasionally, but seems to have fallen into some kind of shock after the cauterization, and the pain of these injuries must hardly compare.   
  
Shiro finishes quickly, grim but determined. When he’s done, Keith is…not okay, not by a long shot. His breathing is still shallow and harsh, hitching in pain. He’s still far too pale, and he’s covered in so many injuries it’s difficult to find a patch of unmarred skin. He’s still in danger, and if Allura doesn’t find them soon, he’s at risk for infection from the cauterization, if he doesn’t die from his injuries first. But he’s alive, and has a chance to make it long enough to a cryo-pod. Shiro has at least bought him that chance to live where he previously had none at all.   
  
Now he just has to get Keith back to the others, so Allura _can_ find them. Shiro gathers Keith into his arms again, this time to carry, and lifts him from the blood-drenched ground. Keith makes a soft groan of pain and sags limply against him, clearly spent. Shiro opts to circle around the outside of the warship back to the others this time—less obstacles to potentially injure Keith on the way. The kid is suffering enough as it is just from being moved.  
  
Even taking the more careful path, and with Shiro trying to ease him through the journey as painlessly as possible, Keith still passes out somewhere between his crash point and the rest of the team. Shiro is frankly shocked that Keith managed to stay conscious as long as he did.   
  
When Shiro reaches the rest of the paladins, he finds Pidge still unconscious, while Lance and Hunk are both still awake. Hunk remains upright and as vigilant as possible, with Pidge’s head still in his lap. Lance is still stretched out on the grass, but has managed to not pass out, and is even maintaining some degree of alertness. Both look terrified when they spot Shiro, and the limp form he carries in his arms.    
“Oh God,” Hunk rasps, eyes wide. “Is he…he’s not…”  
  
“He’s alive,” Shiro promises. “He’ll be fine.” He’s not sure Keith _will_ be fine, but he’s certainly not about to say it out loud, not with Hunk and Lance staring at him with a mix of horror and desperation. They need confidence, and they need to know their teammate is going to be okay.   
  
“Keith is strong. He just needs a cryo-pod and he’ll be good as new,” he adds, when their expressions change to something unsure. He crouches to carefully settle Keith down into the soft lavender grass, supporting his head, and mindful of his abdominal injuries.   
  
“I’ve never seen him that bad before. Not even after the fight against Zarkon,” Hunk says, fixated on Keith’s prone form.  
  
Lance, too, does not look reassured. “I’ll never argue with him ever again as long as he actually wakes up,” he swears, looking deeply shaken and worn out.   
  
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lance,” Shiro says, doing his best to keep the tone lighthearted. “He’ll be fine and you two will be back to bickering in a couple of days. I promise.”  
  
They look so worn down and helpless, so desperate to believe him but so clearly unsure that they can. Shiro’s never seen any of them this way before, so exhausted and broken. And he realizes for the first time since this entire mess began, now that he’s not scrambling frantically to find his crew and get them to safety, that this whole thing is their first _real_ defeat. Until now they’ve had small victory after small victory, or managed to at least come to a standstill. Even the terrifying battle against Zarkon, when he’d split all of them up, had at least ended in _some_ ways as a victory for them. They’d been thrown across the universe and soundly beaten in combat, but even then they’d at least managed to snatch Allura back from Galra jaws, and no one had been killed or even terribly injured. It hadn’t been a win, but it hadn’t been a total loss, either.   
  
But _this_ …this is an undisputed, violent loss with significant consequences, and not a shred of positivity to show for it. They avoided capture, but it had cost them severely; they’ve been separated from their only support, and every single one of them has sustained severe injury, some to the point of being potentially life threatening. Never before have they been so soundly thrashed, had so many of their friends injured so badly, or all at once. Never before has the entire team been so vulnerable all a the same time, so helpless to protect each other. No wonder they’re all in a state of disbelieving shock, badly shaken and damaged both physically and mentally. All things now in perspective, Shiro is frankly amazed they’ve even held it together as long as they have.   
  
He’s never been more proud of any of them.   
  
And he’s not going to let them down, not now. As frayed and on edge and exhausted and in pain as he is for all the same reasons, they’re looking to _him_ now more than ever for stability and support. Their entire world has just been violently smashed into the ground and thrown upside down like the shipwreck that had taken them there, and Shiro is just about the only thing they have left to cling to so they can try and stay standing. He’ll hold on for their sakes until they’ve regained their own footing. He owes them that much.   
  
So he stands guard over them, in a very literal sense. What’s left of his right arm his throbbing, his ribs protest, his head hurts, and his whole body aches with soreness and fatigue, but he refuses to sit, not even when Hunk begs him to take a break. He stands guard over his fallen crew members, ever vigilant, keeping an eye on the odd colored trees and the Galra wreckage. If an enemy comes he is their only real line of defense, and he does not intend to let anything hurt his crew further than they’ve already been hurt.   
  
Most important of all, no matter how scared he is for all of them, he maintains his outwardly calm and controlled appearance. He talks as normally as possible to Hunk and Lance, repeatedly reassuring them every time they start to look more nervous or afraid. He checks on Keith and Pidge regularly, and despite his growing concerns when neither wakes, and when Keith grows steadily paler, he keeps his expression neutral. And inwardly, the entire time, he begs, _please let them live. Please let them all make it out of here okay. Please don’t let me lose one of them again._   
  
In the end it takes almost an hour and twenty minutes before Hunk’s headset crackles to life, and Allura says over the comms, _“We are fully charged and have identified your coordinates. We are on our way, paladins. Find a secure location where the Castle of Lions can meet you.”_   
  
“Already taken care of, Allura,” Hunk says, with the first look of hope and relief he’s had since Shiro first woke up in the wreckage. “Shiro found us a place near a giant field. Should be enough room for you to land.”   
  
_“Excellent. Generating wormhole now.”_   
  
The sight of the Castle of Lions above them a few minutes later, first as a glowing spark like a shooting star, then with its sleek white body and four hangar-engines, is possibly the most beautiful thing Shiro’s seen in a long time. The Castle shifts in midair and touches down on the lavender grass, and the engines have barely finished going silent before the massive double doors to the ship’s main entrance open. Both Allura and Coran come hurrying out to meet them. Both Alteans look like they’ve seen better days—Allura’s hair is disheveled and Coran’s usually impeccable clothing is rumpled and stained from what Shiro guesses is the Altean equivalent of engine oil. They’ve clearly been working non stop to try and get the ship ready so they could retrieve their paladins.   
  
“We must hurry,” Allura says urgently, as she reaches the group. “I’m afraid a Galra patrol may have tagged us when we exited the wormhole. We need to escape as soon as we can.”  
  
Coran is already collecting the unconscious Pidge from Hunk, looking unusually grim. Hunk had informed the Alteans of the extent of their injuries, and Coran had already been preparing medical assistance for each of the paladins, but Shiro suspects hearing about the damage is a far cry from seeing it in person. Still, Coran lifts Pidge with great care and surprising gentleness, and nods to Shiro. “Let’s get them to the cryo-pods, hurry!”  
  
Shiro nods, already crouching next to Keith to lift him again. Keith is scarily pale, and in the last fifteen minutes his lips have started turning blue. He doesn’t react at all when Shiro lifts him, not even with a sound of pain or protest, and Shiro knows he’s in very real danger. Shiro goes from his crouch to a dead run, following after Coran as fast as he can.   
  
Allura stays behind, standing watch over the two remaining paladins with a grimly determined look on her face. At that moment, Shiro wouldn’t put all the money on Earth on a bet against her, not when her paladins are in danger.   
  
In the infirmary Coran has already prepared a number of medical tables to prep the paladins before placing them in the cryo-pods. “Set him down there,” he says urgently, nodding to one of the tables, even as he attends to Pidge. Shiro does as told, setting Keith carefully down on the table. Keith’s head lolls to the side bonelessly, and he looks so…lifeless.   
  
But Shiro trusts Coran to take care of him, and he in turn needs to care for the others. He bolts back outside, where Allura is watching the sky with an expression that is both determined and full of dread, at the first pinpricks of light in the distant sky. When she hears Shiro approach, she crouches next to Hunk and slings his good arm over her shoulders, lifting him as easily as if he were a toy. She helps him walk to the doors, with Hunk leaning heavily on her—she’s adjusted her size to assist him better—and Hunk limps with her, pained but clearly determined.   
  
Shiro skids to a stop next to Lance and scoops the last paladin up into his arms. Lance gasps at the quick movements, and trembles with obvious pain, but he doesn’t complain when Shiro runs them back to the ship entrance. He’s had trouble staying aware for the past half hour or so, but he seems to understand the urgency of the situation, that they need to run and _fast._  
  
As soon as they’re in Allura touches a panel by the doors, and they snap closed, hissing softly as they seal for the journey into space. She settles Hunk’s arm more firmly around her shoulders and helps him to the infirmary, and Shiro keeps pace, going slower now that they’re safely in the ship for Lance’s comfort. Allura takes just enough time to help Hunk settle onto one of the medical tables, and then she bolts out the door, no doubt heading for the bridge and the controls.   
  
Shiro keeps an ear out for the intercoms as he settles Lance onto another one of the tables. If those pinpricks of incoming light were fighters, Allura might need support in the air, and Shiro’s the only pilot capable of providing it. But the ship rumbles comfortingly around them as it takes off, with no blaring alarms or warnings, and Allura’s only announcement is that as soon as they break the planet’s orbit she’s opening a wormhole with the last of their recharged power.   
  
So Shiro helps Coran with the rest of the paladins, which mostly consists of keeping them calm until Coran can get to them. Pidge is already safely in a pod, and Keith is placed in one just before the wormhole jump. Coran resets Lance’s broken leg enough that it will heal right in the pod while Shiro keeps him as distracted as possible, and then he, too, is carefully stored away in a cryogenic chamber to heal. Hunk is last, waiting stoically until the rest of his friends are cared for. His last words before Coran helps him into a pod are, “I promise I’ll take care of that as soon as I’m out, Shiro.”  
  
He stares wearily at Shiro’s impaled metal arm. Shiro looks down at it in surprise—he’d completely forgotten it was so damaged, especially when he couldn’t feel it. When he glances up again, the freezing process has begun, and Hunk’s eyes are closed, already settled deep into the healing sleep.  
  
“Let’s get you taken care of next,” Coran says, turning on him. The Altean looks exhausted but absolutely determined to care for every one of them, and Shiro is a little touched by his obvious concern.  
  
But he declines. “I can’t. Not the pod, anyway.”   
  
Coran frowns deeply. “Your injuries—“  
  
“Are things that can be dealt with, for now,” Shiro says. “We’re already down four paladins. Voltron isn’t an option to us and we don’t even have most of the Lions. If I get in a pod, who knows when I’ll be able to come out again, and we can’t afford to leave ourselves completely defenseless. One Lion is better than none at all in an emergency.”  
  
Coran does not look pleased by this argument, but Shiro _needs_ him to understand how important this is, and needs him to understand that he can handle it until then. “Look, Coran. On Earth you can’t do anything for cracked or broken ribs other than take it easy and let them heal, and the rest of my injuries are pretty minor compared to what the rest of these guys have suffered. I can deal for a day or two until at least one of them gets out of a pod. I’ll take it easy unless we’re in danger, but I won’t leave us vulnerable, not when the ship needs to recharge and we don’t have any other support.”   
  
Coran still does not look happy, but Shiro knows he also has at least some military background and understands the extent of the danger. He finally sighs and nods. “Fine then,” he agrees curtly, “but _only_ if you allow me to take a look at those injuries for non-cryo treatment. And you’ll be doing an emergency session of massage therapy tonight, as soon as the princess can be spared from the controls and we’ve thrown off any trails.”  
  
Shiro knows Coran is worried when the Altean starts giving orders. As some sort of Altean combination of adviser, caretaker, and royal servant, Coran has a tendency to ask or suggest rather than demand, maintaining an edge of protocol at all times. The fact that he’s abandoning it now is a sure sign that he’s just as rattled by the whole mess as the rest of them.   
  
“That’s fair,” Shiro agrees. “Hopefully we’ll shake them and it won’t matter. But I don’t want to be caught unprepared.”   
  
Coran nods and motions for Shiro to sit on one of the medical tables so he can get to work. In the end, he’s able to use some sort of Altean painkillers to help with the ribs, and confirms the head injury hasn’t caused a concussion. He treats the bruises with some sort of medical crystal and binds the smaller cuts with an air of practiced ease. He also wraps the hole in the metal arm carefully with bandages, mostly to prevent the punched edges of metal from catching on anything, or exposing the internal wiring to the elements, until Hunk can take a look.   
  
It isn’t until hours later, when Allura has safely shaken pursuit and settled the Castle on an island-strewn planet to replenish its energy, that Shiro gets his right arm treated. It throbs and stabs at him painfully until then, reminding him repeatedly of just how much he’s exerted himself that day, how much he pushed himself and his prosthetic to their limits. It takes Allura and the mice far longer than usual to soothe out the pains, even with the experience they’ve since gained. Coran stares at his medical scanner the whole time, and gently admonishes Shiro about knowing his limits regarding the prosthetic.  
  
Shiro listens, but he’d absolutely do it all again in a heartbeat to save even a single member of his crew.   
  
The therapy does help in the end, at least. The agony in his arm fades, and while it takes longer than usual, Shiro does eventually reach that trance-like state when he’s floating and comfortable and warm. And he must be more tired than he realizes, because the next thing he knows he’s waking up hours later, still propped against the pillows of the couch with his metal arm resting on the armrest, covered in a blanket.   
  
It’s the last time he sleeps for a long while.   
  
Shiro doesn’t really even start to feel at ease until Hunk emerges from his cryo-pod first, eighteen hours after the wreck. Other than his brief rest on the couch, he’s too on edge, too worried about a potential Galra attack. If he’d thought they were sitting ducks on Arus, they were wounded ones on this planet, and he feels that he must be vigilant until they’ve got more support. Hunk emerging safe and fully healed from his pod eases him a little, but the three sleeping faces still in their pods remind Shiro that the danger isn’t over, not yet.  
  
Hunk barely wolfs down some food goo before examining Shiro’s Galra arm, jotting down notes and taking reference photographs, muttering to himself about different parts and equations. He’s barely done before Coran corners them both and absolutely insists that now that one paladin is on hand for defense, that Shiro _must_ permit himself to be cared for. Shiro’s not happy about the pod, but Coran has been watching him like a hawk since the rescue, and has no doubt spotted Shiro’s clear discomfort.   
  
So Shiro grudgingly submits, allowing himself to be placed in a pod, trying hard to ignore how enclosed it feels, how _trapped_ he’ll be. It helps that Coran and Hunk both stay with him until the cryo-process puts him under; it barely feels like he blinks before he’s stepping out again, ribs and head much better.   
  
Shiro’s relieved to find both Lance and Pidge greeting him alongside Hunk and Coran when he exits. He listens to their relieved chatter as Coran does some frostbite-prevention treatments on his right arm at the prosthetic’s connection point to combat the cryo-chill that’s seeped into the metal. Pidge had only emerged a few hours before him, it seems, and Lance six hours before that. Keith is the only one still in a pod, but he looks much better than before, and Coran confidently assures them he’ll be fine.  
  
Hunk has a fix for his Galra arm, by then, and Pidge assists in his workshop. They double-check its interior and patch the plating, and while it looks a little less uniform compared to before, it holds up as sturdily as it did previously. Hunk adds his usual maintenance, cleaning and oiling the prosthetic to ensure it’s in perfect working order again, and the routine activity actually helps to calm Shiro’s nerves a little.  
  
But it’s not until Keith emerges from his pod a full day later that Shiro relaxes for the first time since the Galra trap and the awful crash. Keith is fully healed, with all the gashes and bruises melted away, and even the awful burn scar Shiro had been forced to inflict is gone. Shiro feels some measure of guilt over that wound even now, and relief that Keith doesn’t have to carry it forever.   
  
But Keith seems to pick up on this, because as soon as he’s had a chance to rest and eat, he finds Shiro. “I don’t really remember much of what happened,” he says without preamble, “but I know you saved my life and I know it wasn’t easy for either of us. Thanks.” His absolute trust in Shiro is evident in his words, and for the first time Shiro actually believes that maybe Keith doesn’t hate him for using the Galra arm against him.   
  
And finally, since the moment Shiro woke up in that wreck, he allows himself to relax, now that he knows for sure all of his crew members are _safe._   
  
And it hits him, now that he has a chance to release all that tension and finally look back and _think_ about everything that happened…that they’re all safe because of him. And, more shocking still, they’re all largely safe because of this _thing_ attached to his arm. He stares at his metal palm contemplatively, and realizes that everything he’d done to protect he never could have done without this thing. Ignoring what would have been a severe impalement injury, unburying Hunk, lifting an enormously heavy weight off of Lance and Pidge, cauterizing Keith’s wound…they were all incredible feats he’d never have been able to pull off as a common soldier, as an ordinary human.  
  
He realizes, with a pang of shock, that it’s the first time he’s ever been able to use the Galra arm to _preserve._ Fully preserve, with the intention of saving and protecting lives. Oh, he’s used in in the past to fight the Galra, using their own weapon against them, and certainly it’s helped to do some good in the universe. But ultimately that is simply using the weapon in a way it was made for—causing destruction or stealing secrets from the enemy—and Shiro just aimed it back at its creators rather than helpless opponents in the ring.   
  
But this is the first time he’s _saved_ lives with it. He hadn’t destroyed the enemy, hadn’t wrecked the Galra attackers and sentries so significantly they backed off of his fellow paladins. He’d _preserved_ lives with it, in ways completely unrelated to battle. He’d found a way to use the awful thing’s destructive abilities and incredible strength for something _good_ , and he’d protected life with it when it was only meant to end lives.   
  
It feels…good. Very good. Not only has he turned the Galra weapon against them in a wholly new way, he’s undermined everything it—and Galra itself—stand for. He doesn’t feel tied down to the fate Galra so eagerly wants to force him towards. He isn’t the monster Sendak claims he is, because monsters don’t preserve life. He has proof, for the first time, that he can make himself—and this unwanted arm—whatever _he_ chooses, use it as _he_ desires. He’s the one in control, not this thing.   
  
And he chooses, above all else, to be a protector. He’ll remember this. He’ll use it to keep saving lives, keep preserving them. He’ll fight too, where it’s needed, use the strength it offers and the abilities it grants him to do his part in this war. But he’ll use it with purpose now, one that he chooses, and that nobody else chooses for him.   
  
Shiro smiles, and flexes his metal fingers, listening to the whir of gears that’s so unnatural and at the same time has become so familiar. And, for the first time in a very long time, he feels surprisingly at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos, bookmarked, or subscribed to this story. And a very special thanks to every single one of you that took the time to leave me some lovely comments. Your encouragement was a gift. I had a lot of fun with this story but you guys made it even better :)
> 
> If you enjoyed, please let me know!


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